


The Captain, the Ship and the Sea

by bunnyfication



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Aliens, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, M/M, Multi, Star Trek - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-20
Updated: 2011-11-21
Packaged: 2017-10-26 09:58:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunnyfication/pseuds/bunnyfication
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Søren Nielsen is appointed as captain on USS Bifrost and asked to make a difficult decision, he thinks he knows the right thing to do. However, there is a thin line between not repeating past mistakes and letting them limit your life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ...what can I even say? I loved the premise, maybe a bit too much, as is evidenced by the lenght (and it still doesn't explore the setting as much as I would have liked to). As I'm not perfectly familiar with the world of Star Trek (especially the series set in later times) and while I tried to research things, I apologise for any mistakes. I've also never really written technobabble before, so I hope it's even semi believable. :')

_**Captain's log, stardate 872436.6...or is that 9, no, 6.**  
Been commissioned on USS Bifrost, or N01-814517, for a one year mission to oversee the peace process in New Solaria planetary system, between planets Titania and Auberon... or something like that._

 _ **Captain's log, supplemental, stardate 872437.3:**  
Calling the ship "this old wreck" got a notably chilly response from the crew. Clearly they can't take a joke. Also, there's something wrong with the doors, afterwards one closed right in front of me. I mean, walking into a door in front of most of the crew isn't the best first impression a captain could make, huh? _

The newly appointed Captain Søren Nielsen closed the log screen that had been hovering in the air in front of him, rubbing at the bridge of his nose to stall the incipient headache. It had been a long day already, and it was far from over. They hadn't yet left dock, and were missing some of the crew, but he'd decided to arrive early. It was his first day on this ship, after all and first day captaining any ship since... since a while ago.

He pulled up the general log once more. He'd read it all before, several times, but it might be worth one more check. Officers, other personnel, missions, repairs... it was a lot, for all the 65 years since USS Bifrost had been in commission.

A long time, even for a ship. Søren scanned over the text, using the ability to read between the lines of a ship log he'd learned working at the Decommission Evaluation Division. The division that was known by the dreaded abbreviation D.E.D. The division he'd worked at for four years now, before he'd been especially requested to captain USS Bifrost on this diplomatic mission.

Søren smiled thinly and asked the computer to limit the search to officers and their time of service, and then surveyed the remaining list. Interestingly, he noted a tendency for either the same people being commissioned several times, or for a relatively short period, often just a single mission.

He thought of the polite yet cool welcome he'd received that day, and nodded to himself. Just as he'd thought. A tight knit crew, possibly to the point of cliquishness... and if he was not mistaken, very devoted to the ship. Commendable, but might make his work difficult later.

They didn't seem to like him particularly. They'd like him even less if they knew where he was coming from and that the brass had asked him to 'unofficially' estimate if USS Bifrost should be pulled in for an official decommission evaluation.

Søren shook his head. Unofficially. Right. Considering the age of the ship, he was surprised it hadn't been taken in for that before. There were repairs marked on the log, certainly, but nothing on the lines of a complete overhaul. The truly curious thing was that the higher ups even bothered being so sneaky about it all.

Søren opened the window containing more information about the building of the ship. Unique model, blah blah, specially designed and built in year 2987 as an experimental vessel at a shipyard in Oslo in the Nordic Union... the scientist who'd drawn up most of the plans, Astrid Myhre, had apparently died just before the ship had been completed. Despite its age and the lack of any extensive overhauls, the ship was reportedly still in 'adequate working condition'.

That wasn't all bad, for an ex-warship, Søren thought, impressed despite himself. Still, adequate might not be enough, sooner or later. And if he had any reason to think that might be the case, he would recommend the ship be taken in for evaluation. It would probably end up in a museum, unique as it was. Would make a pretty exhibit, with all those sleek, almost organic lines in the outer design. Not as pretty as it was in its natural element, soaring the black space, but one had to be practical about these things. An old, dysfunctioning ship did not belong in active duty.

After a moment, he realized he'd been staring at the open documents for a while without reading anything, and closed all of them. Ok, no sense brooding like this, the only way to get to know the ship and its crew was to go out there and... well, get to know it. Up close and personal but not too personal. Well, not unless that was how the chips fell.

Now, his new yeoman, Elizaveta Héderváry... she seemed like a passionate sort of woman, Søren pondered idly as he sauntered over to the door to step out. Had a killer smile too. Not that the rest of the crew were bad looking. For one, there was--

"Evening, Captain."

Søren almost jumped into the air, startled to find his new communications officer right in front of the door, with a politely blank expression.

"Evening, Commander...uh, Myhre, right?"

The blond man nodded.

"I believe you only had time to see the bridge earlier...so I thought I'd take you on a tour to see the rest of the ship," Commander Myhre explained.

"Oh... that nice 'f ya," Søren answered, still feeling slightly unbalanced.

Myhre smiled again, a brief expression, which despite that seemed genuine.

"Well, I've been here the longest so I reckon who better," he replied, with a faintest note of amusement warming his calm voice. "Please follow me."

Commander Myhre made the tour quite thorough indeed. While Søren could see it was of a different design that any ship he'd seen before, the layout was not really all that different from ships of a similar type from six decades ago. Still, he could see the differences were there under the crust of uncommonly decorative panels, even if he couldn't say exactly what everything did. That was alarming in itself, because while Søren was no engineer he did have a fairly extensive education in the field, not to mention the practical experience he'd gained in the D.E.D.

Upon reaching the engine room and finding the chief engineer immersed in running diagnostics on the inner workings of the ship, he decided to ask straight from the expert.

"Lieutenant Commander," Søren started amiably.

"Captain."

The Vulcan chief engineer straightened up from where he'd been bent down to inspect an opened panel, and frowned down at Søren. He was not used to that, for several reasons, not the least because he was rather tall himself. He did his best to dispel the annoyment yet somehow some of it sneaked into his voice, despite the grin sticking on to his face.

"If you can spare the time, I have some questions."

Uups, that didn't really sound like a question, did it? Oh well. The Vulcan officer nodded, the expression on his face not changing at all. Huh, did he always look like he was looking at something stuck to the bottom of his shoe or what? Or maybe like something that would _soon_ be stuck to the bottom of his shoe, on second thought...

"First of all, I noticed in the last forty years, all the repairs and updates on USS Bifrost have been supervised by you, if not done entirely on-ship."

The engineer just stared at him, so Søren was forced to clarify the problem.

"That is to say, there have been no updates done independently by Starfleet personnel usually assigned to that task."

"USS Bifrost has passed all Starfleet checks, Captain," was the blank reply.

It was really quite amazing, how someone could sound so neutral and yet so defiant at the same time, as if Søren was asking completely stupid and unnecessary questions. He could just feel his patience slowly but surely stretching towards its breaking point.

"That was not my question," Søren snapped.

That earned him a scrunch of slanting eyebrows that was... just possibly, meant to be questioning.

"You stated a series of facts, not questions, Captain." the Vulcan told him.

From the corner of his eye, Søren could see the faintly strained or possibly amused look on Commander Myhre's face as he opened his mouth to say something, but Søren would be damned before he let someone talk for him on his own damn ship.

"Ok, you want questions, I'll give you questions. _Why_ would you not let Starfleet personnel do their job in fixing a goddamn ship in the goddamn fleet... _without_ holding their hand while at it?"

Søren took a deep breath, and then, because he had worked with _some_ Vulcans in the past, added:

"And before you start bitching at me about it, I don't actually believe the ship is cursed by some deity and wish to know why you felt the need to... to supervise trained personnel in their work, so we can skip the semantics, thanks."

Ok, so he'd lost his temper. Not his fault, it had been tried.

To add insult to injury, the target of his ire didn't even blink, just kept staring at him with that same old expression.

"The personnel were not competent to work on USS Bifrost," he answered, cool as anything.

"What?" And seeing how the engineer got ready to answer, and just _knowing_ he was going to ask in some annoyingly literal way if there was something wrong with Søren's hearing, he grit his teeth and forced himself to reword the question: "In what way were they not competent to fix this particular vessel?"

"To explain that in detail, it would take approximately--"

"Briefly, if you could, we don't actually have several days," Myhre interrupted the engineer, the first time he'd spoken up since they arrived. The Vulcan glanced at him and nodded stoically.

"Very well. Bifrost has both hardware and software unique to any Starfleet ship currently in use, including a self-evolving databank and computing system. A person wishing to make any changes into the structures or programs needs to have studied their latest workings and updates or risk damaging the systems."

Søren might have been imagining it, but the Vulcan really seemed annoyed he'd had to explain all that.

"Sounds like a very fragile system," he had to comment, hearing the suspicion in his voice. The Vulcan frowned, as of he was personally insulting him by insinuating something like that.

"It is not," he said, before adding, almost as an afterthought. "In addition to independently gathering information, the USS Bifrost can also do basic regeneration."

"Really?" Søren asked, feeling his eyebrows climb towards his hairline. "That's pretty unbelievable..."

"If you wish, Captain, I can compile you a report with the full explanation," the engineer offered.

"Please do," Søren replied, before they left the engineer return to his work.

After a moment's awkward silence as they continued the tour, Søren cleared his throat.

"So, I understand you're second generation of your family working on the ship...or is that third?" he asked Myhre, who turned to look at him with a perfectly composed expression.

"My father held the position of navigator previously...and of course, Astrid Myhre was my grandmother," Commander Myhre explained. There was no trace of boasting in his tone, only statement of the facts.

Søren had noticed that about the man earlier. He was understated, though not in the sense of being forgettable exactly. He merely gave the impression of being very capable and so sure of it he didn't need to specifically broadcast it. The sort of person who could probably calm a group of panicking people in an emergency with just a few words, and then lead them to safety in orderly fashion. And all that applied to almost everything about him, from his voice to his precise yet unhurried movements. Hell, here was a man who could make a Vulcan seem clumsy and overtly emotional by comparison. Talking about which...

"Did I imagine it or did Lieutenant Commander Berwald hate my guts on sight? I mean, I know Vulcans are supposed to be above emotions and all, but you sure could have fooled me back there." Søren said.

Myhre inclined his head neutrally, seeming to think about his answer for a moment.

"I believe he... objected to your humour earlier in the day. He has worked on this ship for a very long time, after all," he replied finally, diplomatically deigning from mentioning the exchange just know. On second thought, maybe Søren _had_ overreacted there, just a bit. Not that he was going to admit it aloud, a Captain had to retain some level of face, after all.

"Ah, I see. You mean he's one of those engineers who'd sell their wife if they had to choose between her and the ship?" Søren gibed distractedly, thinking sourly how he hated to have his suspicions proved right. Explanations or no, that Vulcan engineer was definitely smitten with the ship up to his pointy ears.

"You say that as if it's a bad thing," Myhre said with a straight face, causing Søren to give him a double take, before he saw the tiny, lopsided grin rising to his lips. Far too attractive, that....

"Seriously though, I doubt it. Not for real, anyway. There was that one time on Epsilon 8.19 but that was just for show. And I think Lieutenant Commander was unhappier about it than his bond mate anyway, especially considering how in the end Lieutenant Väinämöinen had to escape on his own, armed with just one phaser. I got the impression he felt the excitement made up for being used in barter, although Berwald disagreed with him." Myhre spoke distractedly, almost as if recalling it to himself.

"...Lieutenant Väinämöinen?" Søren asked blankly, thinking about the helmsman with the boyish, cheerful face. "How did those two even--"

Myhre interrupted him with a sharp look.

"Long story. I'd advice you not to ask... especially from the Lieutenant Commander," he said firmly, before hesitating with a small frown. "I'll just say... you know that mention in their files about a... special holiday?"

"The one scheduled every seven years? That 'cannot be delayed or denied by any extenuating circumstances'? What does that mean anyway?" Søren asked. He'd been wondering about that a bit, actually.

"Yes. It might not come up while you're in command, but just in case... do take it seriously."

"Why?"

"It's a... cultural thing. Very important cultural thing," Myhre explained covertly.

"Oh," Søren said. He really had nothing against aliens, far from that, but dealing with their special rules and beliefs and biology and... special everything could get so complicated sometimes.

*

Søren stumbled into the mess hall, yawning. He looked around blearily, and for once could see some of his fellow officers still eating breakfast. At least there was some benefit to being woken too early, then.

He plopped down at one table after he'd retrieved a breakfast from the replicator, next to Myhre and a young Andorian science officer.

"Morning Commander, morning Lieutenant Jónsson... hm, the Danishes taste different this morning, don't they?" the last he said after taking a bite of his. Søren inspected the pastry bemusedly, noting the icing had turned black, and was most likely the source of the curious taste.

Lieutenant Jónsson grimaced.

"Lieutenant Väinämöinen has been 'adjusting' the replicator again. Or asked Berwald to do it," he explained flatly.

"Well, it's not too bad," Søren remarked and ate the rest of the Danish in two large bites. Then he realized the two others were staring at him. "What?"

Myhre took a drink from his cup to hide whatever expression could have been seen on his face, while Jónsson shook his head and mumbled something in his own language the translator couldn't translate.

"It was probably Berwald, because the last time he tried himself _everything_ tasted off for a week. And Väinämöinen was very... affectionate earlier," Jónsson continued, sounding quite put upon by all this.

"Was he?" Myhre murmured.

"They were _holding hands_. And when I told them to get a room Berwald said they already share accommodation." Jónsson complained, while Myhre looked amused without really smiling as he had a habit to.

"Cute, but as long as they're not sucking face at the breakfast table I don't see why...what?"

He was getting that stare again, and again he couldn't even figure out why. Before he had time to get an answer, though, Myhre glanced at his watch.

"It's almost time for the debrief," he remarked.

Søren blinked, having to take a look at his own watch to verify it.

"Oh, right, I almost forgot about that..."

"That so," Myhre said diplomatically. So, maybe he'd been late a few times. Not even by much!

As they all got up to head towards the briefing room, Søren fell into step with Myhre.

"Funny thing this morning, my alarm went off half an hour earlier than it usually does... even though I'm sure I programmed it for the usual time," he mused aloud.

"That's strange," Myhre replied politely. Søren glanced at him with mild suspicion.

"There's not any way for someone else to set it, is there?" he asked, earning an innocent look from the Commander.

"The emergency signal and general communication are on a different channel," Myhre replied promptly. "The personal alarm is only wired for access from inside the cabin."

"Hmph," somehow, Søren's instincts were telling him he wasn't being told the whole truth. He so often got that feeling aboard USS Bifrost he was almost starting to get used to it.

"In any case, it doesn't have seemed to have caused any harm," Myhre noted, unnecessarily if one asked Søren.

*

Yeoman Elizaveta Héderváry stood up and looked around the room, a datapad held professionally in her hand.

"Just in case some of you haven't read any of your homework, both Titania and Auberon orbit the star Tehria, among eleven other planets, three of which are suitable for humanoid lifeforms. Auberon is the closest of these to Tehria, and the origin of the current dominant race in the system. After the discovery of space travel, Titania was colonized first and the further off planet Cahokia only much later. Cahokia has a native population of it's own in addition to descendants of colonists from Auberon and Titania, but it has mostly remained uninvolved in the current conflict," she started, smiling confidently.

During Søren's previous captainship, his yeoman had been a rather timid Denebian who he had, in hindsight, perhaps bossed around a bit, Søren thought with mild guilt. He didn't think he was entirely to blame though, it had been his first time too, and the man really shouldn't have let him get away with it so easily if he really minded doing all those extra things... be that as it may, Héderváry had certainly put him in his place.

Even know, Søren winced at the memory of her look when he'd made the mistake of asking for a cup of coffee. Or, gods, the bitingly sweet lecture about the official duties of a starship yeoman, given in view of the whole bridge crew no less.

Søren had no doubt that Elizaveta Héderváry would one day make a fine Captain, should she ever wish to give up her job in terrorizing them.

Right at that moment, she was clearly in her element talking about the system they were heading towards. Usually it wasn't one of her duties, but despite being fully human, she'd been born and raised up to her early teens on Titania, and was as such a sort of expert on the fairly unknown planet and the habits of it's inhabitants.

"The humanoid populations of all the planets in the Tehria system are genetically compatible despite their differences... due to historical reasons, many of the inhabitants on Auberon have some Orion ancestry. Culturally there are more obvious differences."

"We're going on Auberon first though, aren't we? Can you explain the reason for that?" Myhre asked. He probably knew perfectly well, and was just asking to make sure everyone else did, Søren assumed.

"Yes. Before a time approximately ten years ago, Auberon and Titania had been getting along fairly well. It seems the current conflict began over the aurumium mines situated on Auberon's moon, Icenia. The metal used to be produced in Auberon and imported to Titania, where it was used in various products which made up the planet's chief exports.

However, ten years ago the mining on Icenia stopped suddenly, for reasons Auberonian government refused to give, leading to the economical situation on Titania deteriorating dramatically. This in turn caused political unrest. The faction that seized power first established their own trade agreement directly with Icenia and then declared war on Auberon. Since then the country has been launching intermittent long range missile attacks, while cutting all communication with the outside world, except for transport of goods. Many Federation members have boycotted Titanian products due to--"

As Héderváry continued her explanation, Søren's thoughts started to drift despite himself. Absently, he leafed through the datapad in front of him, gaze catching onto the descriptions of Auberonian and Titanian culture. _'--placing much emphasis on honour and avoiding the loss of face. This can lead to deliberate sophistry in order to spare self or others from recrimination,'’_ he read idly, grimacing at the sentence. Great, they were leading peace negotiations between people who couldn't even admit why they were fighting.

"Any questions?" Héderváry finished. A scientist whose name Søren couldn't recall wished to know about the anatomy of the natives. Héderváry's smile brightened in an alarming manner.

"Well," she said, "they resemble humans, although with certain differences. The most obvious outward one being blue markings on their skin, the shape and clarity depending on the individual. Due to their Orion genes, many inhabitants on Auberon have a greenish hue. The most notable difference with humans, though, is that Auberonians and Titanians are born hermaphroditic. They form a partnership at the age of maturity, through a ceremony in which the stronger individual...hm, shall we say, the individual that gains dominance in the ceremony will become physically female, although the adult physiology of both sexes resembles that of males of many humanoid species, including humans. Haha, boy were I disappointed when it dawned on me humans don't work that way... anyway, this physiology is maintained through the duration of the partnership, up to 15 years, after which both members restart their cycle and are free to either seek a new partner or redo the ceremony with their previous partner."

"Huh, so how do they, dunno, make more Auberonians?" Søren asked without thinking about it. By the expressions of some other people, they'd been wondering about the same thing, but hadn't dared to ask.

Héderváry smiled sweetly and explained the process, seemingly unaware of the several blanching faces around the staff in the room.

"So it's a bit like sea horses," she finished cheerfully.

Lieutenant Jónsson made a gagging sound, and Søren reached out absently to pat his shoulder in commiserating fashion. That...had been more than he'd wanted to know too.

"You... you said earlier they're genetically compatible with other humanoids...?" he asked shakily. Héderváry narrowed her eyes, seeming to ponder the question.

"Some, like Orions, obviously...most have never been tested, though. But then you know the regulations about wearing protection, so I'm sure it'll be no problem, eh?" she said and beamed at the room in general.

"I really do hope so," the chief medical officer chirped with a fixed sort of smile, which caused the head medical assistant Raivis Galante to flinch out of reflex.

"Ok, that's enough information... well, besides the packet of information Yeoman Héderváry compiled which I recommend everyone should read," Søren added as he saw the pointed look from her. "We're landing on Auberon in..."

"Fifty hours and twenty seven minutes, Captain," navigator Von Bock said, without even glancing at his watch.

"... yes. So let's get ready for that. Dismissed," Søren concluded.

*

Their journey was delayed slightly by a problem in the air conditioning, as Søren found out the next morning when he stepped onto the bridge and found Berwald scowling at Galante. Both of them were standing in front of an opened air conditioning vent, the medical assistant holding tricorder to it. He almost jumped into the air at the further shock caused by Søren's appearance.

"C-Captain, I'm just--" he stuttered, but was interrupted by Berwald.

"The air recycler was malfunctioning. It is not threatening, merely a problem with the airflow which we've already almost fixed. Medical assistant Galante is making sure there are no contaminants, but I expect there will not be any. Is that correct, medical assistant Galante?"

Poor guy, getting glared at like that.

"Ah, um. No. No contamination," Galante replied, doing his best not to seem intimidated. Surprisingly, he was even quite successful.

The Vulcan nodded.

"Good. We were forced to move some power from the engines to ensure the air recycler would not cease functioning entirely, as per regulation, but should be able to return to full speed shortly," he reported to Søren.

"I see," he replied, before noticing something else that was off from the usual. "Isn't it Commander Myhre's shift?"

"He is on sick leave due to a- a--"

"Acute viral rhinopharyngitis," Berwald said flatly.

"The what!?" Søren asked.

Galante gave the Vulcan engineer a mildly pained glance.

"Just a mild case of common cold, Captain. It should clear up before we reach Auberon," he explained with a sigh. "Now, if you'll excuse me I'll just..." he mumbled before fleeing the bridge.

"Hm. So, you're sure that's not related to this... air recycler thing?" Søren asked, waving his hand in direction of the opened vent in the wall. Now he thought about it, the air did seem a bit warmer than usual, even a bit stuffy.

"There was no contamination," Berwald replied shortly, closing the vent with a snap.

"Ok," Søren replied dubiously. He resolved to find out if there had been or were any other cases of flu among the crew. After all, Commander Myhre must have caught it _somewhere_ , cold viruses didn't just appear out of nowhere.

Søren sat down in his chair while Berwald went around the room, checking the other vents for... whatever engineer purpose he had for doing it. Maybe he just satisfying his perfectionist personality, who knew. He remembered with slight irritation the report on the different functions of USS Bifrost Berwald had sent. The thing had been the length of several long novels and written in such impenetrable engineer lingo Søren had hardly understood anything.

Currently, the only sounds on the bridge were the usual hums and peeps of machinery, the click of Berwald's tools, and Lieutenant Väinämöinen humming something where he was manning the helm. Altogether, it was very peaceful.

Wouldn't do for the captain to fall asleep on duty.

"So, Lieutenant Commander Berwald, I've been wondering," Søren said, as he happened to be working on a vent right next to his chair at that moment.

"Yes, captain?"

"How did you and Väinämöinen end up together anyway?"

So, maybe Myhre had said he shouldn't ask, but he wasn't there, and Søren was curious, dammit. The blank look Berwald levelled at him did worry him a bit though... he didn't even look angry, and somehow that was even scarier. If one was prone to being scared by the man, which Søren definitely wasn't, of course.

"...it was logical," Berwald replied, which was the Vulcan equivalent of 'because.' Despite that, somehow Søren couldn't keep from asking:

"How so?"

Berwald took a moment to think, before he spoke, still in that level, emotionless voice.

"Lieutenant Väinämöinen is physically healthy and also visually and tactilely pleasing. Mentally, while he is prone to action before considering all the consequences, this feature is compensated by other, more positive features, such as bravery and adequate intelligence, the limitations of which I believe I can compensate for by myself. In essence, I find him and I are compatible in many ways."

Lieutenant Väinämöinen had stopped humming, his back straight as a ruler. In hindsight, Søren should have made Berwald stop speaking at that moment, but he was too busy staring at him in horror.

"It has been argued that my desire to reproduce might make the union illogical, but considering the progress of related technology, I believe such arguments were and are not substantial," Berwald finished. Then he blinked and turned to look at Väinämöinen, who still hadn't turned to face the room, while everyone else on the bridge tried to act like they had been so focused on their duties they wouldn't have noticed a Romulan attack.

"Berwald," Lieutenant Väinämöinen said, after a long, painful silence.

"Yes?"

"Please leave."

"Yes."

Søren only dared to breathe, tentatively, after Berwald had exited the bridge. Except it was too soon, because that was the moment Väinämöinen turned towards him...

*

"I swear, I will see that smile in my _nightmares_ ," Søren rued.

"I did warn you," Commander Myhre replied, his eyes laughing while his face remained sober as ever.

"Uhuh. No way. A _warning_ would have been saying 'don't ask, because the poor Vulcan has no dictionary to mouth filter'. Jeez."

"Apologies, I didn't realize how much like a cat you are..." Myhre murmured, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes, the low, bluish lights of the observation deck throwing obscuring shadows on his features. Almost like moonlight, or starlight...

Søren had gone looking for him after his shift, and eventually found him there, at the large transparent wall opening to the space outside. They'd dropped out of warp already, this close to the planet, and were moving slowly enough for the stars to be stationary pricks of light, rather than stretched lines.

Søren had asked why he wasn't in his cabin recovering but Myhre had argued he felt better here. Somehow, he looked so content there, gazing at the stars, that Søren hadn't the heart to order him away.

He realized he'd been staring, and turned his gaze away, jumping up from the recliner chair and stepping closer to window himself. It wasn't glass...some sort of transparent metal, perhaps, something strong enough to hold against the vacuum outside. Søren laid the tips of his fingers against it, expecting it to feel cold, but it didn't, no more than the walls.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" a low voice asked at his side, and he was startled to find he'd been so deep in thought Myhre had stepped up right to his side without him noticing.

"I suppose so," Søren agreed tentatively. "A bit lonely, perhaps," he added without thinking, suddenly remembering vividly the escape pod, the uncertainty of whether he'd be left afloat forever, with only the bitter taste of failure and betrayal to accompany him.

There was a hand on his arm, settling there for a brief moment, before moving on.

"In ancient times, human used to cross oceans on ships made of wood, not knowing if they would find storms or monsters, if they would in fact find anything at all but a void. And some of them perished on the way, and no one ever found out what happened to them. Still others found new lands, unimaginable treasures and new people..."

"And made them wish they'd never been born, nine times out of ten," Søren finished sourly.

Myhre shrugged.

"True. Still, there is something compelling in that idea of exploring something without known limits, isn't there?"

"Has to be, or so many humanoids wouldn't have bothered with the technology for space flight either," Søren agreed pragmatically. "Wired in sort of insanity, that."

Myhre was quiet for a long moment.

"USS Kalmar was a fine ship," he said softly.

Hearing that name was like being suddenly immersed in freezing water. The sudden darkness in place of air, like the time he'd broken through lake ice as a child. He told himself he was being overly dramatic. Hadn't he already gone through all this a thousand times during the investigation? It was no secret, after all. A captain losing their ship could never be a secret, nor shouldn't it be.

"She was... old," he forced the words out, stiff and sharp like pieces of ground glass, before he realized how it sounded like an excuse. "I should have recognized that, before..."

"She was never meant to be a warship, she should never have faced an attack of that calibre. Had the engine failure happened at any other time--" Myhre's voice was reasonable and calm, and illogically it grated on Søren, on the wounds that hadn't healed, no matter how much annoying therapy sessions he'd been forced to go through.

"Should nots and had nots don't bring back lives," Søren snapped angrily.

Myhre met his gaze straight on, the softness and compassion replaced by something harder than steel.

"Neither does one person feeling sorry for himself over it," he replied coolly.

Søren found he couldn't face that look in his eyes.

"I don't need to..." he mumbled, unsure what he'd even intended to say, before turning to walk away, knowing he was running away, but unable to stop. Myhre's voice was sharp and clear like the starlight behind him.

"If you can't face it, you'll never trust neither a ship nor yourself again," he said, but Søren didn't turn around.

*


	2. Chapter 2

The away team for Auberon consisted of Søren himself, Héderváry, Jónsson and Väinämöinen. They were teleported onto a spacious inner yard, surrounded by tall white pillars. The yard was filled by a system of pools of water, streams and waterfalls, tiled with turquoise glass and with several bridges radiating from the centre of the area over them. It was all distantly remignant of classical architecture on earth.

"...we're being received at a spa?" Søren asked.

"Water is important on Auberon," Lieutenant Jónsson murmured in a low voice, as the first Auberonian appeared to meet them, crossing quickly over the bridges in front on them.

It was... probably a male, despite the fragile, girlish looks, since Søren had read something about the females possessing some sort of thin hair covered appendage on their heads... which frankly sounded like it could be rather disgusting, but in any case this one seemed to have a perfectly normal head of hair. His skin had the barest green tint, in addition to some faint bluish lines on his cheeks and a series of spots on his forehead, both partially covered by curling locks of greenish gold hair. He looked quite young and was dressed in long, ornate robes with flowing sleeves, decorated with shimmering gold embroidery.

"I apologise for the wait," the Auberonian chirped, before he walked the last few steps over to Søren, crossed his elegant and webbed fingers behind his neck and promptly pulled the captain down for a deep kiss. Søren was too flabbergasted to do anything before the Auberonian let him go, eyes half lidded and lips red. "Hello," he said in a breathy voice.

Then he stepped back and blinked his long eyelashes at them.

"I understand that is the normal greeting on earth, is it not?" he asked innocently, while Søren tried to gather himself. "I am emperor Francis. I bid you welcome to Auberon and I hope you will feel right at home," Emperor Francis purred. "Please follow me to the negotiation hall."

With that, he gathered his robes and turned, starting to walk away towards the way he'd come. Søren had to be gently nudged by his yeoman to follow.

"I see the stories about Emperor Francis' eccentricity were not very exaggerated," Héderváry commented wryly.

"Well... I guess everyone does mistakes," Søren replied charitably.

"Perhaps," Jónsson mumbled, his tone implying he wouldn't bet on it.

They were led through several grand hallways, occasionally passing through new yards. The pools and artificial streams were a common feature, even indoors, and everywhere the air had the same balmy sort of quality. The few people they met were almost as beautifully garbed as the Emperor, giving them curious, sideways glances but not stopping.

"On Auberon, we don't stand on ceremony, nothing like the old-fashioned brutes on Titania," Emperor Francis mentioned once, his voice dripping self-assurance.

Søren had read that Auberon's economy had suffered almost as much as Titania's, both from losing their main export and from trying to defend the population from the bombs that seemed to hit the cities at random. Apparently they were usually able to predict the hits far enough to evacuate the people to special shelters, and thus casualties were relatively few, but the infrastructure in many cities had suffered. But there was no sign of suffering to be seen at this large, hushed palace.

The Emperor led them to a domed hall, the main furnishing of which seemed to consist of large pillows. There was already a man sitting on one of them, leaning lazily back on the pillows. At his elbow there was a large plate with piled high with something that looked almost like small sandwiches, and every now and again he reached for one. He glanced at them idly when they entered but didn't react otherwise.

"Please sit down," Emperor Francis told them, not acknowledging the presence of the young man in any way.

They sat down, more or less awkwardly. The following discussion seemed to consist mostly of idle chitchat. Søren wanted to speed the discussion up, but he reckoned that probably wouldn't be very diplomatic before their host brought the issue at hand up. Not for the first time, he wondered why they'd even chosen him for this mission. Frankly, he had very little practical experience of this sort of thing. Then again, he supposed it probably wasn't considered of great importance, relatively. Relatively no great atrocities had been committed and while aurumium was valuable, the Federation didn't particularly rely on it. But surely Starfleet wouldn't send him on a busy-work mission just for him to evaluate the shape of an old ship, no matter how special?

"--indeed, we have been implementing new--" Emperor Francis was saying, when the young man suddenly leaned forward, his curious gaze fixed on Héderváry.

"So, you're a human female?" he asked.

Despite his earlier words about not minding lack of courtesy, Emperor Francis didn't seem to like being interrupted, his face crumbling into a brief frown. However, he recovered fast, fixing the sugary smile back on his face.

"Ah, yes...we used to have some humans here before... before, but recently it has been mostly us from this system. I believe my young friend Alfred has never met one, have you?"

The young man laughed lowly and brushed a hand through his hair, one strand of it fluffing up stubbornly.

"That I haven't," he said, leaning lazily on one elbow while the Emperor's smile grew more fixed. Héderváry glanced from one to the other, the faintest frown on her face.

Perhaps she was feeling it too, the strangely oppressive mood under the sumptuously relaxed circumstances. Or maybe it was just too warm, Søren thought as he tried to loosen the collar of his dress uniform.

Before they even got as far as mentioning the unrest between Auberon and Titania, there was a sudden commotion somewhere. The large brass doors at the other end of the room where thrown open, and an incensed figure stormed in.

The Auberonian's face was flushed a delicate violet, and his green eyes sparked with ire as he pointed a shaking finger at the Emperor. Søren noted the man's clothing was not nearly as fine as the Auberonians they'd seen so far.

"You!" he cried.

The Emperor turned lazily to face the intruder.

"Why, to what do I owe this--" he began to say, but the stranger slammed his foot onto the floor, one of the fine tiles cracking under his heel.

"Do not speak to me!" he raged. "I demand an explanation!" not seeming to notice the contradiction in his word, the Auberonian took a deep breath and continued hotly: "Our house is in ruins, the vines have all died because of those damned poison bombs...and you. You do nothing! My mate... your own cousin, is ill, but you do nothing!"

By the end, it seemed like there were tears in his eyes.

The Emperor sighed, making a world weary gesture while frowning at the other man.

"Dear Lovino, you presume too much... haven't I done all I can to negotiate? Why, I even gave up Mathew, and for what, nothing! It's not my fault both the Icenians and Titanians have gone insane!"

The silence that followed was broken by Héderváry.

"I thought you were fighting only Titania?" she asked.

Emperor Francis paled, whirling around to face her with his unflappability suddenly shaken.

"I--you call it fighting? They have cut all contact and throw bombs at us we can only hide from. Whereas the Iceni are fanatics who won't listen to any reason... I see how it is then, the Starfleet is no better...!"

He had been gesticulating rather wildly all the while, and at the last threw his hands down to emphasise his sudden loss of faith in Starfleet, the long ornate sleeves flopping dramatically.

"F-Francis?" a weak voice asked from the open doorway, and an Auberonian with a curly head of hair peered in. He looked emaciated, and there were deep shadows under his eyes.

"Antonio!" Emperor Francis cried out, practically flinging himself at the man, who stumbled slightly under the assault before patting his back.

"There, there..." he mumbled, while the Auberonian who Francis had called Lovino sputtered.

"You idiot, why aren't you in bed!" he screeched, "and, and... Francis, get your hands off him!"

Emperor Francis raised his head, his blue eyes brimming with tears.

"Oh, Antonio, it's been such a horrible day," he whimpered, before once again pressing his face against Antonio's tunic and starting to shake with sobs. Meanwhile, his arms which had been embracing Antonio curled tighter around him, one subtly shifting to clutch him lower...

"I said stop groping him!" Lovino shouted again, running over to swat at both of them ineffectively. Most of his slaps somehow managed to hit the sickly looking man.

"Lovin--ow! Why are you hitting me?"

"I'm getting a headache..." Lieutenant Jónsson mumbled, and Väinämöinen pat his shoulder in commiserating fashion. Jónsson glared at him. "Don't even, you're just as bad," he said flatly, at which Väinämöinen sat back and crossed his arms with an insulted huff.

Søren himself was beginning to wonder... oh, to hell with diplomacy.

He stood up, taking up his most commanding tone:

"Ok, someone explain to me right now... in small words, what the hell happened here."

Everyone turned to look at him. All the Auberonians were wearing identical looks of scandalised insult, except for the one who hadn't stopped eating sandwiches all the while their delegate had been there. Now he popped the last one in his mouth and chewed it thoughtfully, before stretching, the movement showing off the lean muscles on his arms.

Then he settled back with his legs crossed and arms settled in his lap, giving Søren an intent look.

"I could explain," he stated, raising a quieting arm as Emperor Francis made a noise of protest. "Sorry Francis, but I think they need to know."

He gave the delegate a cool, considering look, and then smiled a wide, open smile.

"Sit down, Captain," he commanded amiably. Søren did, but only because they weren't on his ship.

"So, small words. My mate of a few cycles now, he kinda runs the operations on Icenia. Controls access, if you will. The last cycle, I won for the first time, and he... got all stupid about it. So I thought I'd teach him a lesson by going away for a bit and Francis here said he'd help. Long story short, he took it badly. I reckon it was messing with the aet on top of everything..." he said thoughtfully.

"...you're saying this is all because you wanted a divorce," Søren asked flatly, while Antonio glared at Alfred.

"Oh yes," Antonio snapped.

Alfred hunched his shoulder defensively.

"Oy! I never meant for it to go so far... but Titanian's first bombs hit the shipyards and stations...we've kinda been shut in since then. I mean, sure we've tried to built more but it’s slow work. Besides, they keep--"

As if called by his words, there was suddenly a calm voice over a hidden loudspeaker.

"A speed missile headed in the way of the palace, hit in seven minutes. Recommended evacuation distance five kilometres, closest--"

That was the last Søren heard before all of them were beamed onto the ship, including the Auberonians.

"Welcome back, Captain," Von Bock said from where he was working at the transporter panel, only glancing up once before going back to tapping the screen in front of him.

"I'm beaming up everyone in the radius of the missile and putting them back in a safe location," he explained.

Søren frowned at the shocked looking Emperor, who was muttering something to himself.

"...speed missiles, I thought they were out of those already..."

Even before Søren got as far as the bridge, the ship itself was hit, shaking it and causing him to stumble in from the doors, cursing.

"Captain Nielsen, looks like we made ourselves a new target. No worries, it didn't get through the shields," Lieutenant Väinämöinen greeted him cheerfully.

"I want everyone not working on something urgent to a quick debrief in ten minutes," Søren ordered. "We've plans to make... you too," he told to the Auberonian called Alfred, making a quick decision about it. He seemed like a capable person, and he had inside information. To the point it could be argued he'd started the whole mess, but still.

Before Søren could make his way to the debriefing room, though, he was apprehended by Myhre.

"Captain, I believe there is something you should hear. As you know, Titania has cut all communication and traffic, but I was scanning the different wavelengths, and found a broadcast. It seems to have been sent by a small satellite circling Titania. The sound quality isn't great but I did manage to clean up the message somewhat."

While talking, he'd taken out a pocket sound device, and pressed at a few buttons. Immediately, a scratchy voice began to speak out.

"Hello, Mr. unlikely-to-be-anyone, if you're listening to this, congratulations, you've chosen the Awesome Chick Channel...yes yes, I'm-- the first voice was interrupted by the sound of a brief scuffle and a distant "Hey! We can't waste another tape..." Before a more intent and angry voice spoke instead.

"On behalf of the Titanian government and people, I'm stating the declaration of war was not generally approved of. Furthermore--"

"Here the sound quality went too bad to salvage" Myhre remarked, as the voice on the recording dissolved into incomprehensible scratchy sounds. I suspect both the record and satellite were of amateur manufacture and have been damaged in orbit.”

He rewound the recording further, until the disturbances cleared up again for a short bit.

"--cannot get through the missile shield out of the planet or into the control centre."

"And that's all there is," Myhre said gravely.

"Sounds like a bunch of really big misunderstandings," Søren commented drily, and Myhre smiled thinly.

"No kidding," he agreed.

"So, if we can get on both Icenia and Titania we might be able to straighten things up...Titania seems like the most urgent case. Especially when they're shooting at us.

*

After a short discussion on what they knew about the defence system and the ship's capabilities, Väinämöinen and Von Bock agreed that USS Bifrost should last out against Titania's missile shield long enough to gather information and return safely.

"While there seem to be a lot of weapons stocked on Titania, the source in use there is most likely limited, judging by the changes in the missile types launched at Auberon over the years." Von Bock explained. On top of being one of their best navigators, he was also the chief tactical officer. "Furthermore, according to my calculations it seems likely there is a single person behind the controls, and this person is..."

"Unhinged," Väinämöinen supplied helpfully.

"Working in a random pattern," Von Bock finished.

Søren turned towards their chief engineer, who was scowling in a corner, probably disgruntled he'd been called away from his precious engine room.

"Think she can do it?" he asked.

"Bifrost is capable as a warship, but the success of a mission also depends on the skills of the crew," Berwald answered coldly, earning a dark glare from Väinämöinen. Seemed like those two still hadn't made up then... well, this was no time to worry about personal relations among the crew.

Unfortunately, it turned out they'd underestimated the amount of weaponry left on Titania. Besides the missiles, the planet's defend also had a wide array of short range weaponry in their arsenal. 'Short' being a relative term in planetary warfare.

Their main offence team of Eduard Von Bock and Tino Väinämöinen ended up having to work with a constant communication to Berwald, as he tried to direct the ship's energy supply whenever it was most needed at any particular moment as they tried to duck the photon torpedoes and answer fire. Meanwhile, Myhre tried to find the point where the commands to the weapons on the planet were coming from.

"Ha! There's one ex-missile base. Hey, someone tell Berwald to put more juice into the right canon, I could get the next one in one shot..."

"Tell the lieutenant that would compromise the shields," Berwald replied stonily.

That was one thing, despite the situation, they were still refusing to speak directly to each other, which on top of the fire fight was giving everyone else a headache. Still, when the heavy duty speed missile appeared out of nowhere and Tino had no time for anything but aiming and shooting, there was suddenly enough power in the cannon to blast the missile before it hit the ship, the mostly harmless pieces rocking the momentarily weak shields before Berwald nudged them back up.

"Ahah, that was lucky," Tino commented breathlessly.

Søren happened to meet the gaze of Lieutenant Jónsson at that moment, and the Andorian pointed to his temple, mouthing 'telepathy' before turning back to his work in scanning the planet as best as he could from that distance.

Finally, Myhre made the sign he'd found the point of origin for the commands on planet and USS Bifrost backed out, slightly dented but functional. All along, they hadn't really expected to get through the planet's defences on one small ship, merely close enough to find where the control centres were. Surprisingly, Myhre had confirmed all commands were coming from a single source, as he let them know in the debrief afterwards.

"There were remains of protective coding, but they hadn't been maintained or enforced against newer forms of detection. Unfortunately the centre itself is deep underground and the success of an aerial attack seems unlikely."

"Ground level?" Søren asked.

"Impossible to say, as we don't know the circumstances on planetside...we have only the one message, after all. The message itself was, as far as I could calculate, sent about a year ago."

He played said message once again, as some crew members in the room had not heard it before. A sudden clatter turned Søren's attention towards yeoman Héderváry, who had dropped her datapad, her hand raised over her mouth.

"It can't be..."

"Lieutenant?" Søren asked sharply. She stared at him uncomprehendingly for a moment, before visibly pulling herself together, face masked by efficient professionalism once more.

"Captain. I recognized the first voice, that's all."

As everyone turned towards her, she took a deep breath, belying her outward calm.

"It's...I believe it belongs to a Titanian called Gilbert. He is… was a ward of a prominent Titanian politician before the conflict."

"I see... interesting. So, now we need to figure out a way to get on the planet. I suppose beaming is out of the question?" Søren asked.

Berwald shook his head.

"We couldn't safely expend that much energy in a battle," he said, for once speaking almost like a normal person instead of a walking dictionary.

"Ok. No beaming. What options do we..."

"Iceni ships can get there."

That was Alfred, leaning onto the wall. Søren hadn't even noticed he'd been in the debriefing all this time. Which he really should have, he thought, embarrassed. Even if it wasn't against regulations to have civilians in a debrief, a captain should at least be aware of it... well, he'd just have to roll with it now.

"Yes?" he said, hoping no one had noticed his momentary confusion.

"If you can make a deal with Iggy's people, they could smuggle you in," Alfred said contemplatingly.

Søren narrowed his eyes at him.

"How likely is that to work?"

Alfred pondered this.

"Dunno. He can be pretty stubborn sometimes... it depends, really. But it could be worth a try, your choice," he finished with a faint grin, before growing serious. "One thing I know, I want this mess to end, so I'll talk to him."

It wasn't an ideal plan, but it was the best they had.

*

The moon Icenia was, in the words of Alfred, 'one huge swamp full of poisonous fog.' In fact, there was little dry land on the whole moon.

"The little land there is happens to be volcanic and prone to exploding under a person anyway, so people mostly live on the water. Floats and poles and what have you," he explained.

"Get a lot of pirates?" Søren asked jokingly, and Alfred gave him that puzzled look people sometimes got when the universal translator had trouble with a word.

Then he grinned.

"Buddy, we ain't got nothing but pirates," he laughed.

They beamed onto a desolate structure built over water, which according to Alfred was a place his mate expected anyone who wished to negotiate with him to arrive at. It was essentially a rectangular steel plate resting on two thick poles. On one side was a small hut made of various scavenged looking materials. The only thing to be seen was the yellowish-grey fog drifting below the edge of the structure like a miasmatic sea.

"And under it there's just water, mostly. And some plants that manage to grow in or on the water," Alfred chatted.

Suddenly the door of the hut banged open, and a young Icenian ran out and stopped to gape at them.

His skin had a faintly greenish tinge, although not as obvious as Alfred's, and definitely less than most of the Auberonians they'd seen. Conversely, the blue patters were very obvious on him, a line of dots crossing over his face under the eyes and accentuating his distinct eyebrows.

"Peter!" Alfred cried out, holding out his hands for a hug, but the boy just frowned at him and bunched his hands on his hips.

"Alfred, where the hell have you been? I mean, I don't mind Arthur being pissy, but he's trading with these crazy evil Titanians and won't listen to any sense--"

Alfred raised a hand to stall the speech.

"Ok, that's why I'm here," he assured the boy.

"Yeah right," Peter huffed, before giving the rest of them a curious look.

"This is Peter," Alfred introduced the boy. It seemed that Auberonian and Icenian culture didn't put much weight on the relations between people, at least when it came to explaining them.  
"And these people are from Starfleet...Captain Nielsen, Commander Myhre and Lieutenants Väinämöinen and Héderváry."

If they negotiations went well, they would of course have to get more people, even for a mission requiring infiltration, but for now there was no sense in taking many people into a potentially dangerous situation.

Meanwhile, Peter was trying to not look impressed.

"Ha," he said, sniffing. Then he turned towards the horizon melting into the fog on one side. "I think the ship's coming."

Slowly, a very peculiar looking vessel appeared out of the fog. It consisted of a large balloon, which was connected by a maze of rope to a wooden body, along with several sails, presumably to direct or possibly to move the ship. Essentially, it looked almost like a cross between an ancient sailing ship and a zeppelin.

It moved eerily silently, the grey form seeming to merge into the fog billowing in its wake. Peter glanced at their expressions and grinned mischievously.

"On a really foggy day, you can't see her at all," he said.

As the ship sailed closer, they could see a figure standing at the bow, dressed in a bright red jacket that almost shone in the surrounding greyness. Precisely before it would have crashed into the fort, the ship slid into a smooth stop, its bow slightly over their level.

The Icenian looked down on them coolly.

"Hello Iggy," Alfred said cheerfully, and the Icenian's face darkened, his eyes growing shuttered. He nodded stiffly.

"So you've returned. With... humans from the Federation?"

"Yup," Alfred replied calmly. "They've decided to sort things out. But they need your help to--"

However, the Icenian didn't appear to be listening to him.

"I suppose they're to help you take over, since Francis failed in that," he said glumly.

"What... you're still on about that paranoid delusion?" Alfred asked disbelievingly. "It's was your idea to challenge me once again, and-- I don't even care about your stupid traditions!" He seemed to suddenly remember the company they still had, and flushed in embarrassment. "Iggy, can't you just listen for once? I really don't care about ruling this old swamp."

"Be quiet. We will speak of this with the help of aet," Arthur snapped. With that, he swirled around and walked away, boots thudding onto the planks.

Alfred frowned at his back, before making a quick gesture that was probably something rude.

"He really has become worse," he remarked to Peter, who rolled his eyes.

"No, really?" he replied sarcastically.

They were instructed to sit on the deck, while the small crew of the ship disappeared somewhere unseen. The vessel sank fully into the fog, until it drifted just barely over the water below. Once, they passed a small hover ship docked by an anchor sinking into the black waters, seemingly empty but for small barking dog.

"So, what does this... aet do exactly, anyway?" Väinämöinen asked curiously.

"It clears your thoughts," Peter replied seriously. "Or so people say," he added.

Søren noticed Alfred hid a smile by pretending to cough.

"And the person we met, he's your mate, right. How did you meet?" Héderváry asked. Despite her general professionalism, Søren had noticed that one thing about her, she was always terribly curious about people's relationships.

"Iggy... we still used to have Orion slave traders hanging around in these parts back when I was young, and Arthur kinda. Um."

He cleaned closer to them, as if divulging some mildly embarrassing secret.

"Well, officially the Orions weren't allowed to take locals from any of the planets, but my dad back on Cahokia, he was indebted to them, so he sold me and my brother to pay that off. And then Iggy robbed them and took me as a mate..."

He stopped as he saw their shocked expressions, puzzled for a moment before realization dawned and he shook his head emphatically.

"Oh, you think... I mean, it's different on Icenia, you don't necessarily need to... uh, have sex. I mean, some do, but only after a certain age and--" he turned to look out into the fog, blushing bright violet.

"That's interesting..." Héderváry mumbled, her eyes looking dreamily into the distance. Alfred gave her a nervous smile she didn't seem to notice. Then he looked around, as if realizing something.

"I wonder where Matthew is, anyway..." he mumbled.

"Here, actually," a voice replied, startling everyone.

They turned to look at a young man, bearing some resemblance to Alfred, although his hairstyle was more similar to the one Emperor Francis had worn.

"Oh, there you are... have you been using the Art too much, I have trouble seeing you unless I concentrate," Alfred commented, squinting.

Søren wondered for a moment who he was talking to, and then shook his head in confusion. What was he thinking, the man was right there! Plain as day. Clear as clouds... no wait.

"Art?" he asked, starting to get a headache trying to think about it.

"Art of Being Invisible," Alfred replied. "It's a traditional martial arts on Icenia. Well, not very martial, but it can be applied to it. Matthew's always been a natural at it... a bit too much, even," he added, for some reason glaring at his brother who raised his arms defensively.

"Look, I've told I had nothing to do with the pastries," he argued.

"So you say," Alfred replied suspiciously.

*

Aet turned out to be a greyish drink that looked suspiciously like the water they'd seen earlier.

First, Alfred stated their request, in a surprisingly formal manner before they all sat down around a low table to drink the ceremonial cup of aet. It's drinking involved sitting very still and upright, and was conducted in absolute silence (presumably to let everyone think about the proposition). The taste was quite terrible, bitter enough Søren had trouble swallowing it down. However, Søren did find that afterwards the headache the fumes in the air had been giving him was suddenly gone. So maybe there was something medicinal in it... he was startled out of his thoughts by Arthur sighing suddenly.

"Now, we will speak. You wish me to take you to Titania, is that not so?" he asked gruffly. Alfred sat up straighter.

"Yes," he said expectantly, earning a glare from Arthur.

"Even if I had reason to help you, which I damn well haven't seen any reason to think--"

"But Iggy...!" Alfred began to say, but he was interrupted by Arthur raising his hand, stalling him from speaking.

"I can't," he said, seeming to take a moment to think how to continue. "I was... transporting other things besides aurumium onto the planet. I got away before they could prosecute me... and with the speed of 'justice' on Titania these days, that means getting the hell out before it's anything but a niggling suspicion in their minds. If I go back they'll shoot me right out of the skies. I only have rumours on this but... I think they might not even need the aurumium anymore. What they've been doing to Auberon, that's nothing but a child's play, practice for something bigger. I don't know what sort of weapons they've been building, all I have is rumours that it's biological."

"Huh, what does that mean?" Søren asked, and Arthur turned to look at him, his green eyes intent and grave. He smiled darkly.

"It means they're planning to take over the galaxy, of course," he said.

*

Arthur's information was received grimly. They'd called for backup, but the brass demanded more proof than the word of a pirate to send in a fleet, especially to such a remote corner of the Federation.

"They could be right, anyway," Søren was forced to admit. "We really don't have any concrete proof it's more than an especially bizarre case of violence between two small planets...no offence Emperor Francis," he added as an afterthought.

They'd been forced to park Bifrost further away from Auberon, to avoid being constantly targeted by missiles. Unfortunately they couldn't do the same for the entire planet, as whoever was behind the controls on Titania had started working with newfound enthusiasm, to the point they'd been forced to temporarily evacuate some of the worst affected citizens onto Bifrost itself and the ship was definitely not meant for the purposes of such large groups.

At the moment, there were people sitting and sleeping in the hallways, and Doctor Braginsky was feeling harried, which in his case meant he kept ducking into his office and returning smelling suspiciously of vodka. Not to mention the giggling. The giggling was terrifying everyone. And in these chaotic circumstances, no one, not even Berwald who was busy repairing some small problem in one of the dials, paid any attention to one curious young Icenian boy ducking into the engine room...

Later that day, Søren was once again sitting in the observation room, staring out into the unblinking stars. It seemed to be a bad habit he'd learned from Commander Myhre, he thought wryly. Funny that, he'd never really bothered looking at them, stars. He'd been born on a starship, after all, the USS Kalmar. His mother had been a cook there, but she'd always seemed so busy with her work, so Søren had just ran around the ship with the other children aboard when they didn't have school to attend to.

He remembered sneaking into the command level on a dare when he was seven years old, his heart beating as if it wanted to escape from his chest. And then of course, he'd ran straight into a little middle aged woman, and realized with a jolt it was Captain Margaret. He'd been absolutely terrified when she asked for his name, terrible images of being accused of treason or whatever happened to people who went where they shouldn't on a starship, but she'd just smiled at him with her eyes while firmly leading him back to the elevator.

"We all make mistakes, Søren, I'm sure this doesn't need to go any further."

And then that one time, later, when their small class got to visit the bridge, Captain Margaret caught Søren's eye and winked at him. As if to say, I remember you.

Søren sighed. He'd wanted more than anything to be the captain of that ship. It had been far more substantial than any of the identical starbases they'd visited, or the planets that had, sometimes, been a nice place to stop over, but nothing more. The longest time he'd ever spent in any other place had been during his studies in Starfleet Academy, but that...that had been just for studying. USS Kalmar had been his home.

"I'm sorry," he whispered to the star filled void. Perhaps he could have done something differently, reported the small problems an old ship was having, not crafted his reports on her condition with more loyalty than truth. But Captain or not, he had been just one person. And he'd been the last to leave her, the last to stand on the bridge and close the lights after himself.

Perhaps that was worth something, if only to him. He just hoped he wouldn't ever have to go through it again.

*

On Titania, a lonely figure ducked out of a doorway, hunching his shoulders against the raw cold. A gust of wind swept through the empty alley, picking up a can and sending it clattering down the cobbles. Somewhere further off, a door was slammed shut, but when the man looked up, he could see no living creature.

He passed one store, the faded ornate signboard above the door proclaiming it was a dancing school. On the door, however, there was a sheet of cardboard, with neatly printed text advertising cheap shoes. He sighed, thinking how the music had used to stream out of the open upstairs windows on warm summer days, the instructor's voice echoing sharper over the soft notes. On the house opposite, the burned out windows of the once-a-restaurant stared out blindly, and he shivered and looked away, telling himself it was merely the cold evening.

He realized dark was falling, and that there were no streetlights to see by. No one was supposed to be out this close to the curfew anyway, but there had been so much to do at the office, and he hadn't fancied another night sleeping on the cot there.

But now he had to hurry, it wasn't safe to be out in the dark, and not only because it was illegal, Roderich reminded himself. As if called by his thoughts, the searchlight of a security bot appeared from a side street, sweeping over the ground and glaring in his eyes as it hit them. The bot drifted closer, droning out in it's emotionless voice:

"Name, business and verification."

"Roderich, going home from work at the ministry," Roderich answered numbly, holding out his right wrist where the identification chip was embedded under his skin. As the bot scanned it, he thought of how Gilbert sometimes complained he could feel it, no matter how often Roderich scoffed at him and told him it was only in his imagination. After a while, he'd stopped complaining, but he kept scratching over the place on his wrist until it was red and raw, with a strange, trapped look in his eyes.

"Identification verified. Thank you, citizen," the bot said. "Full curfew commencing in ten minutes."

"Yes yes..." Roderich mumbled, but the bot was already moving away from him, it's beam of light combing over the street. Roderich looked at it for a moment, before making haste towards his apartment again.

The apartment complex was one of the better ones issued to ministers. Hardly up to the old standards, of course, but lately Roderich found it harder to care. He climbed up the long stairs slowly, stopping at the top to take a deep breath.

Gilbert was lying on the bed, curled on his side and facing the wall, uncommonly motionless. The cage on the table next to the bed was covered as well, so perhaps he was sleeping already, despite the early hour. Early for him, anyway, even if in these times when there was hardly anything to do in the evenings anyway.

Not that Roderich was complaining, he was bone tired himself, and it was good not to have Gilbert attack him the moment he got home, demanding food or entertainment or simply attention. Even the thought of it made him so tired he had to sit down on the bed, the metal strings making a discordant twang under him. Really not up to the old standards, Roderich thought with distaste.

"Roderich," Gilbert said suddenly, though he still didn't move, or even turn around. "Could you play something?" his usually obnoxious voice was oddly soft, and Roderich felt a faint sense of alarm try to get through his exhaustion.

He glanced at the small piano crowded in the corner between the bookshelf and the replicator.

"It's late," he protested hesitantly.

"Come on, just one song."

"...if you insist," Roderich agreed reluctantly, not sure why he even bothered. Maybe it was because Gilbert was being so strange. But he was probably just tired as well. Everyone was tired these days. And it couldn’t be easy, knowing it was your younger brother who was behind all of it.

*

Early in the morning, Gilbert got up. Roderich would have been surprised to see how quiet he could be about it when he wanted to be. After dressing, he stood for a moment over Roderich’s bed, looking down at his sleeping form with a strange little smile.

The streets were empty at this time, the few people around mostly very early work goers, or those so desolute not even the bots could be bothered to clean them up. Neither cared for Gilbert himself as he walked slowly towards his destination, unhurried.

He stood for a long moment in front of the palace, just looking at the tall grey pillars. It looked like a huge mausoleum, he thought, not for the first time. After walking in through the guarded doorway at the top of the stairs, instead of the main office, he headed to the side, to a maze of hallways leading to an elevator, which Gilbert took down to the cellar.

The bots let him through. After all, why would they stop the head of the armed forces, no matter how much of a joke the whole title was. Only thing he found, behind two guards, was a small screen with number pad and a single off/on button.

He dialled a long code, but then hesitated. This was always so difficult, and this time…

Gilbert grit his teeth and pressed the button. Immediately, the screen sprang to life, showing an image of a room with a single bed and simple facilities. There was a single figure in the room, hunched on the bed with his arms around his knees, rocking back and forth. He was singing under his breath, so quietly Gilbert couldn’t quite hear it.

"Feli," he called out, and the man's head snapped up. He scrambled closer to the camera, fingers reaching out to touch the screen, as if he wished to reach through it.

"Gilbert!"

Feliciano sounded heartbreakingly happy to see him, despite everything.

"How is... how is everything? Everyone? Has he said anything about... about things?" he asked, hands unconsciously wringing the bottom of his shirt, eyes wide in his thin face. He was being fed, but Feliciano complained the food was tasteless and boring and he could hardly bear to eat any of it. He'd always been a damn gourmet, Gilbert though, hating him once more for doing this.

"It's... the same. Nothing's changed." he managed to say. Nothing's changed for anything but worse, was what he couldn't quite bear to say.

"Oh," Feliciano didn't exactly sound disappointed, just blank. Like he hadn't even been hoping much anymore, and that was also wrong for him. Utterly wrong. Still, he somehow managed to smile encouragingly, at whatever expression he saw on Gilbert's face.

"Oh but... don't worry about it! I'm sure if you do your best he'll listen to you eventually. I mean, you're doing your best, and he's your brother, after all. And I know deep down he can't do something that terrible, not really. He's just confused right now."

Gilbert swallowed, feeling cold right down to his bones. Poor stupid Feliciano.

Somehow, he managed to dredge up a smile of his own.

"Yes, of course," Gilbert lied.

*

He didn't hesitate at the door. From this moment onward, there could be no hesitation, not if he wanted to have any chance of success. Instead, he allowed the guard bots to scan him, and stepped in as he did every day. Not like was expected to look happy about it, these days.

He... Ludwig, best think of him as Ludwig now already so it wouldn't startle him later. Ludwig glanced at him from where he was writing something into the machine that listened to all the communications made on the planet and within reach of it, all the way to Auberon and beyond. It was keyed to certain words and expressions, letting him know everything worth knowing.

Knowledge is power, he'd told that to Ludwig, years ago when he was young and newly cloned and had trouble concentrating on his studies.

He found that same intent blue gaze on him now, clear as the sky.

He might have tried to convince himself it was just a clone of his long dead brother, that something had gone wrong in the process. That whatever had been between them was never real... but that would have been bullshit. The kind of bullshit Gilbert was finished with.

"Gilbert," Ludwig said, matter of fact, but with a certain fondness in his cool blue eyes. "It seems the plan is advancing as planned, they've decided to try another attack, based on the apparent diminishing in Kiku's missile supply..."

He wrote something more, and nodded to himself, pleased by whatever information he got.

"I've allowed them to find his location already, and they've made a plan to get through the shield and destroy the base. It should be successful. Then, naturally, I'll have to escape, especially once they get in contact with Vash's faction and get their codes for dismantling the security bot system. As well as control of this board, of course."

Oh, so that was why he hadn't been imprisoned. Looked like Vash had been right to be so paranoid about it.

"And you'll release the pathogens and they'll be infected, huh?" he said blankly, already having been informed of that part before.

Ludwig smiled coolly.

"Exactly."

"And by the time the symptoms kick in two years--"

"Minimum,"

"Yeah, from now."

"They'll have spread it generously around the galaxy." Ludwig finished, steepling his fingers in a pleased manner. "And I'll be the one with the cure."

"It's a great plan, little brother," Gilbert told him softly and Ludwig flushed, glancing away in embarrassment at the rare praise. He might seem all tough and adult, but inside he was just a little kid who wanted his brother to be proud of him.

Auberonians might think them stiff barbarians, but Titanians had certain rules they never broke. One of the most important was about blood relations. A person could never hurt their sibling. Certainly not a younger sibling one's parent had entrusted into their care, it was unthinkable.

By the time Ludwig turned back, Gilbert had the gun out, pointed straight between his eyes, and he didn't hesitate to pull the trigger.

"Too bad it won't work out that way," he said.

A moment later, elsewhere, Commander Myhre looked up from the communications console suddenly.

"Captain, I have a direct transmission from the planet."

*

It might have been an anticlimactic ending, someone else assassinating the tyrant before they had time to barge in heroically to overthrow him. Lieutenant Väinämöinen was certainly disappointed his skills weren't needed. Søren, who would have needed to deal with the paperwork that was required of a captain when he decided to intrude on planetary politics, was not. The price of excitement was always measured in tedious documentation, he thought glumly.

Be that as it may, for once it seemed like they might get most of the work done for them. The bad guy was dead, and his evil robot army defeated by a code that could simply be dialled into a computer... except then they found out no one had the codes to the weapons centre. And that the guy who, according to Titanian law was now in charge of the country had no intention of allowing them to outright destroy it.

The Titanian still bore the marks of imprisonment. He was wavering on his feet, even, and the white haired Titanian who'd contacted them kept hovering near him, ready to grab him should he stumble, but still, he was quite clear about him opinion.

"Look, you can't kill him, Kiku doesn't know what he's doing. He thinks it's all a game! Ludwig told him... oh," and then he began to cry. Again.

Søren gave a confused glance at the other, who'd earlier introduced himself as Gilbert and he stared back flatly, before he shrugged.

"You do what you need to do. It's true he doesn't know it's real, and he has orders to cease fire for now, but I didn't have the official command code, so it's pretty much up to him to believe them," he was speaking distantly, like it was something that didn't really touch him, and there was something dead about his eyes.

The other Titanian gave him a startled look and stepped away.

"Gilbert, you..."

He grinned mirthlessly, with a sharp edge to the expression.

"Don't you know Feli, they say it gets easier after one person, don't they? Kill one, and the next one won't be any trouble at all. Isn't that what happened to Ludwig? So maybe I should just help everyone by making sure I never get that far?"

"Don't say that, don't you ever say that!" the newly appointed king wailed, shaking him by the shoulders. Or Søren assumed that was what he meant to do, but the effort caused him to slump against Gilbert's chest instead, sobbing disconsolately.

Somehow he was getting a feeling of déjà vu... then again, he had heard the new king was originally from Auberon, which explained a lot. Søren decided to leave the Titanian to settle him and set to finding his team instead. At least they could probably be depended on not to collapse emotionally.

He found Myhre and Von Bock where he'd left them, working on the command desk the erstwhile tyrant had used to control the population. From their expressions, Søren gathered they hadn't gotten much further since he'd last seen them.

"Anything new?" he asked anyway.

Von Bock, who was currently typing away on the dial, shook his head, leaving Myhre to answer verbally.

"Not much, Captain. the system has detected us trying to break into it, and is changing the codes quicker than Von Bock can hack into them," he replied.

They'd found out the person in weapons centre was an individual called Kiku. He was apparently, of all things, somehow convinced that the system he was controlling was actually some sort of elaborate game. Brainwashing, or something like that. Gilbert had managed to send him a message right after he'd killed Ludwig on a channel he'd left open, before the channel the tyrant had left open closed down.

Presumably, Kiku was now puzzling over it's meaning, before he'd decide what to do. Unfortunately, it was likely he'd assume it was a bug, or some sort of attempt by the 'game' to fool him, and would continue blasting away at everything in sight. And according to Gilbert, he still had a lot of ammunition left.

"Ok, so we'd best tackle the corridor of doom, right?" Søren said, rubbing his hands. Myhre gave him a quelling look.

"I'm not sure that's wise, Captain, even without the bots, we don't know the nature of the traps laid there, only that they exist...

"It can't be that much worse than the practice track at starfleet. However, since you are right in that we don't know the exact risk...I'm going to go check it out myself."

Whatever Myhre had been about to say, he snapped his mouth shut at that suddenly.

"You can't," he said, forgetting even the 'Captain'

Søren just grinned at him.

"Sure I can, I'm the captain," he replied cheerfully.

Myhre's expression spoke eloquently what he thought he was, but he didn't say anything. It was far too fun to get a bit of a rise from such a usually unflappable officer, Søren thought giddily. He knew he'd only been assigned as captain of USS Bifrost because of his experience in D.E.D, and he hadn't been allowed to storm the planet, so wasn't he entitled to enjoy a bit of excitement somewhere. Besides, those traps couldn't be so dangerous. Really.

"Very well," Myhre sighed. "We will need disguises, though. Presumably this Kiku will be watching the corridor leading to the centre. Perhaps if we look like maintenance rather than officers of a foreign army he will be less likely to shoot first and ask questions later."

"Yes! That's a great idea... wait, did you say we?"

Myhre gave him a cool, resolute look.

"Yes?"

"Uh oh... no way. That's an order, officer..."

*


	3. Chapter 3

"I must say I still object to the shirt," Myhre told him as they advanced along the narrow corridor, peering around warily. "The colour is extremely unlucky."

"Sorry," the man accompanying them, Heracles, answered distractedly. He had the greenish skin tone speaking of Auberonian descent, and was apparently someone who'd known the brainwashed guy before he was brainwashed, so King Feliciano had insisted he accompany them, to convince him of the truth or some such. Søren just hoped he wouldn't get in the way too much.

Søren pulled distractedly at the collar of his red maintenance jacket, which had been the only one that fit on him at all.

"I object to you being here at all," he muttered, but not very loudly. He wasn't sure how he'd caved in the first place, but apparently Myhre could be terribly convincing when he wanted to be.

"So, what sort of traps--holy hell!" he caught Myhre just before he fell into the hole that had opened into the floor. Instead of seeming properly spooked, the man just peered down into it curiously."

"Spikes. How curiously primitive," he commented, while Søren tried to calm his heartbeat. "Captain?"

"Yes?"

"Could you let go of my waist now, I'm not in danger of falling anymore," Myhre said calmly.

"Oh. Right."

Søren let go, brushing his sweaty hands on his clothes, while Myhre gave him an inscrutable expression. Then he smiled a little.

"Well, at least we now know to expect traps in a very...traditional sense," he commented.

Traditional was one way to describe them, Søren thought later, after the three of them had survived a rolling boulder by vaporizing it with a phaser, spears coming out of a wall and, surprisingly, laser fire.

"All I can say is what the hell?" Søren groused, rubbing at his shoulder that had been singed by the unexpected lasers. Luckily, they seemed to be approaching the end of the corridor at last. On the door, there was a single button. Irritated by the stupid and ineffective traps and eager to finish the mission, Søren reached out to press the button.

"Wait, don't!" Myhre started to say behind him, but before he had time to finish, the door opened soundlessly to something that looked like rather comfortable living quarters.

A small man with jet black hair and eyes stood up from a chair facing a wall full of different monitors and controls. He was giving them a blank look, face almost entirely expressionless. Slowly, the man looked at each of them, before his gaze settled on Heracles and he frowned, as if especially puzzled by his presence.

"Heracles? What are you doing here?" Kiku asked, almost dreamily. Indeed, there was something of a sleepwalker in his behaviour. "This is...is this part of the Game as well?"

The became aware of a beeping on the controls behind Kiku, that there was a series of red numbers on the middle screen, counting down, while all the others had gone dark. It was counting, in Titanian numbers, but Søren assumed the fact the numbers just went to double digits wasn't a good sign.

Heracles glanced at the two of them, and Myhre nodded at him decisively.

"Yes Kiku," he replied, voice perfectly relaxed, smiling at him almost sleepily. "This is the part where you have to get out, ok?"

Even though the traps were inactive, Søren could have sworn the corridor had become longer since they first passed through it. The whole area the corridor was built in apparently had some nice anti-beaming devices protecting it they hadn't been able to disable, so they had to get out of it the hard way. Halfway through Kiku, who'd been led along by Heracles stopped though.

"Wait, this isn't...what about the prisoner? He'll surely be killed... or is that ok?" he asked, sounding confused.

"Where, Kiku? And who is it?" Heracles asked, still calm, although there was a barest note of urgency in his voice.

Kiku seemed to ponder it for a moment, his eyes staring into the distance unfocusedly.

"I... I don't know... but in the hallway to the right, I think..." he mumbled.

Oh, to hell with it. Søren didn't even take the time to hesitate before sprinting back.

"Go forward!" he shouted at the others over his shoulder, but wasn't surprised to hear footsteps at his back anyway. Myhre of course, damn the man.

"This door will be locked," was the only explanation given. Myhre didn't even sound out of breath.

"I've a course in lock picking too," Søren snapped while running, but Myhre apparently didn't consider that worth replying to.

There was a hallway branching away from the first door to the right, and another door at the end of it, heavily fortified. Myhre took out an electronic lock picker, of a type that didn't exactly look like the regulation model given to starfleet officers, but if it worked Søren wouldn't even bother asking.

"How much time do we have?" he asked urgently, but Myhre just shook his head, concentrating on fine tuning the lock picker, turning it this way and that, presumably to narrow down the specifications of the lock it was trying to break.

"Approximately sixteen minutes, he replied and then, "Do you want me to count, Captain?" as the lock picker continued to do it's job.

"Please don't" Søren replied, as he frankly didn't want to know how close they were to death. When it was only about eleven minutes, the lock picker chimed, and the door opened, slowly, far too slowly.

Behind it was a room, smaller than the one Kiku had been living in. A tall blond man stood up from a pallet, opening his mouth to say something, but they didn't have time for chitchat.

"The building goes up in ten minutes, run if you want to live," Søren told him, and the man closed his mouth and nodded grimly. Søren reminded himself to congratulate him on his quick uptake if they survived this, and then they ran.

The prisoner was surprisingly fast, even going ahead of the two of them. Funny, considering he'd been shut in that small room for gods knew how long. Maybe he'd been working out, Søren thought, preferring to ponder that rather than their impending doom.

Their footsteps echoed in the seemingly endless corridor, and then they'd passed the entrance into the ground floor of an government office building it exited into. Søren could hear a mechanical voice, warning everyone to exit the premises and nearby area.

They prisoner turned to look at them from the door, but Søren waved him ahead. Each man for their own, he thought, and then picked up Myhre, because the man had shorter legs.

"Wait, what, put me down!" Myhre protested, his emotions showing on his face for once. "You idiot!"

Søren laughed breathlessly.

"Yeah, whatever," he replied, before setting to get as far away from the building as possible. He had a nasty idea the self destruction might include a pretty big explosion...actually, now they were in an area where the communications were working again...

"This is the captain," he spoke into his communicator. "Containment on site 42, right now. Possible danger of nuclear explosion... Myhre, how long?"

"Two minutes. That blue building over there with the open door looks like it might be able to last," he grit out, still sounding angry.

They barged into the house in question, heading for the cellar and hunching down between sacks of some sort of root vegetables. As they'd opened the door, an automatic lamp had set off to light the space, a surprisingly large room, the roof and walls covered by something that looked like particle board at a glance. Søren grinned at Myhre's shadowed face.

"Well then, good luck Commander, see you on the other side," he commented.

"I could have run faster on my own, idiot," was the exasperated answer, before there was a sudden shock of movement, and the lamp went dark. Søren was barely aware of a ear burstingly loud noise at the same moment something hit his head, hard, spinning the world into an even deeper darkness.

*

He woke up with a pounding headache, and for a long moment wondered why he'd thought it a good idea to get drunk on Romulan ale again. Someone was calling out his name, sounding increasingly urgent.

"Shut up," Søren mumbled, and then had to cough and spit out the dust filling his mouth. The voice shut up.

"Captain, are you all right?" Commander Myhre asked, sounding more like his usual self if a bit strained. It was around that same time that Søren finally remembered where he was. He was lying on his side, and hurting approximately everywhere, especially on the left side. He tried to move his limbs carefully. All there, but his left arm sent out such a jolt of pain he couldn't help making a small surprised noise.

"Are you all right, Søren?" Myhre repeated, more sharply than before.

"Yeah, 's just my arm," Søren hastened to answer. "Think it's broken, and my heads banged up, but that's all." he added. Admittedly, trying to sit up, his arm clutched carefully against his chest to keep it from moving, made his head hurt so bad he almost threw up, but he was starship captain Søren Nielsen, and a little concussion wasn't enough to stop him, no way. At least in the dark, if there were any dark spots he couldn't see them, seeing as it was dark as pitch to begin with.

"Oh, good," Myhre replied faintly. "Roof's caved in, be careful" he said shortly.

"Noticed that," Søren mumbled, having realized it by his head hitting a loose piece of flimsy particle board hanging down from it. He groped closer to where he'd heard Myhre's voice come from. He could feel shards of the board and probably some sort of insulation material under his palms, as well as a pool of something wet, before he finally found something soft that turned out to be Myhre's arm.

"There you are, Commander," Søren said, oddly relieved. Only then did it occur to him to wonder why Myhre was lying down, and not even making any attempt at movement.

"You all right?" He asked, heart suddenly in his throat, tracing down the arm until he found a pulse point. For a moment he couldn't feel it at all, and even when he managed to find the pulse, it was slow and weak.

"I'll be fine," Myhre answered weakly. "I just...there were some pipes in the roof that also fell in the explosion, and I don't think moving..." his voice grew steadily softer and then faded away entirely. Søren reached out to shake him, and then thought better of it, instead feeling along his torso. Before he got far, though, Myhre's hand grabbed onto his wrist.

"Don't," he said softly. "Best you don't... touch--" he gasped suddenly in pain, and then seemingly had to concentrate on just breathing. "Ow," Myhre mumbled in a small voice.

Søren grasped his cold hand. He thought about the damp he'd felt earlier, that he could still feel soaking through the knees of his trousers. Perhaps it was something from the broken pipes. Oh, please let it be the pipes, he prayed as he clutched Myhre's cold, unresponsive hand.

"Just... hang on, they'll get us out in no time." he whispered, voice rough from the dust he'd inhaled earlier. He intended to keep talking, since he had an idea that was something you should do to injured people, to keep them awake. Problem was, his head hurt, and he was feeling really sleepy himself.

Sometime later, Søren wondered when he'd laid down, on the side that wasn't broken. No, that didn't have the broken arm. It was difficult to remember things, like his thoughts were sticky and fuzzy. Like candy he'd found under his couch, that'd gone all furry except what did that have to do with anything? Weird thing to think about, that.

Funny. He thought about telling that to Myhre, because he was supposed to talk to him, but it was difficult to form the words.

You're not to fall asleep he meant to say to him, but it came out all garbled, like his mouth was full. At least he was still holding onto his hand, so he gave it an encouraging sort of squeeze. Just to say everything was going to be fine.

Myhre's hand was cold, really cold, so Søren curled closer to him, ignoring the sticky liquid on the floor. It was drying anyway, so it didn't bother him much. That was good, since Myhre was lying right in the puddle, and he was already so cold.

Søren remembered his mother telling him he shouldn't have wet clothes in the cold, since he could get sick easily. He didn't want Myhre to get sick, because he had pretty eyes and he was funny in a dry sort of way, even if half the time he was making jokes over Søren that he didn't even realize were jokes until a day later. But Søren knew he still liked him, that it was just his way of showing it.

It would be fine. He'd be fine and then he'd complain about Søren carrying him and how he might have gotten them both killed because he didn't trust Myhre to run himself. Søren would just close his eyes for a moment now, and when he woke up everything would be fine...

*

Things got really fuzzy after that. It seemed like he lay down in that dark place for a very long time, or maybe for just a moment. At some point, there was a very bright light, and noise that jangled in his ears, in from one and out the other, like his head was hollow with nothing in between.

"Found them" it might have said, or maybe not, and there might have been movement, later. Up and up and up, like an elevator lifting, or a small ship that didn't quite have perfect environmental balancers.

Ship. Elevator. He'd sneaked onto the bridge, where he shouldn't be because it wasn't his place, except there was no one there but him and Captain Margaret. It was dark, except for the emergency lights on the controls, leaving her face shadowed. Like moonlight. Her eyes looked sad, but she was smiling at him anyway.

It was just the two of them, but that wasn't so bad. It was calm and quiet and a captain should go down with their ship, that was how it had always been done.

He looked out to the sea, and it was strange, like someone had cut out most of the horizon with a ruler and a carpet knife, cut it right out and left nothing but an edge and he stared at it for a long time before realizing it was the edge of the world, that it was ending right there.

"Don't worry, I'll take it from here," Captain Margaret said, and her voice was the song of the ropes in the wind, the creaking of the sails.

He wanted to argue, but she lead him away, her hands gentle but firm.

"Everyone does mistakes. You can only learn from them, and then move on," she told him calmly. "Goodbye, Captain," she said, and pushed him over the railing, into deep dark waters. He sank into it, down and down and down, until the fish swimming by were strange monsters that carried little lamps that shone like stars.

Maybe he touched bottom eventually, somewhere so deep down there was nothing but darkness and old dead ships, raising their broken masts towards the drifting star-fishes. It was not a bad place to be, that dark place, where all the weight of water pressed down on him, keeping him still for once. But somehow, it was a calming sort of weight, like the weight of a lover after a long, pleasurable round of sex, when a person feels like they'd never want to move again.

Of course, that always passes and then it just becomes boring to stay still and quiet again.

Then, he started to listen, and after a while, he realized it was so quiet he could hear human voices, hitting the steel of the ships and echoing back to him. Three voices, one calm and measured, one gruff and coldly argumentative and the third quiet, seldom rising at all. He suddenly got the idea they were judging him, as he waited mutely here at the roots of the world and couldn't defend himself. Was that fair, he wondered, mildly irritated.

"Perhaps it was better if he didn't see me anymore." the first voice was saying, thoughtfully.

"You believe it is time?" questioned the other. The voice held no emotional inflection, and nevertheless managed to sound judging, somehow.

"Yes," the first replied with sadness that chilled him, suddenly. And then, in a lighter tone, he added: "Otherwise, he will quite likely wonder."

"You do not trust him, then," and oh, there was certainly a judgement if he'd ever heard one, and he wanted to go up there and deny it, whatever he was being accused of.

"It's not that. He is a good man... and a corrigible Captain," at that last, Søren knew, there would laughter in his eyes that so seldom touched his lips, that wouldn't go anywhere when he'd protest he was so much better than that.

"It's not just that, is it? You know something we don't," the third voice said, challenging, and this time the first voice fell quiet.

"I know a lot of things you don't know," he replied, finally. Calmly, and not boastfully at all. Merely stated as a fact, or even as if all that knowledge was a burden to carry.

The voices kept talking, but he found it harder to concentrate on what exactly they were saying. Instead, he began to think about swimming, of going up past the dead ships and star-fishes and towards the real stars. It was hard work, swimming such a long way. And so he never heard the end of the argument.

Instead, he heard medical assistant Galante's voice, speaking in that quiet way of his.

"Well, some say it's brave, and some say he was just being reckless, since captain's shouldn't go running off towards danger like that. I really couldn't say. Oh, I think he's waking, you'd better go before he sees you..."

By the time he actually woke up, Galante was standing by his bed, pointing a flashlight in his eyes, and asking questions like his name, what year it was and so on. There was no one else in the infirmary.

*

There had been a lot of things to help with on both Auberon and Titania. On Auberon a lot of it had to do with rebuilding and deciding what to do about arable land polluted by poison missiles. On Titania the problems were less connected to loss of infrastructure (thought that had happened as well) and more to do with the wounds several years of fear and paranoia had left on the population. Not to mention there was a lot of bitterness on both sides, and no one on USS Bifrost fancied the idea of leaving and hearing about a war breaking out between the two planets again the following year, or whenever they managed to scrounge up something to throw at each other again. Which meant negotiations, negotiations and then more negotiations.

In other words, bickering over a conference table while starfleet personnel had the unthankful job of ensuring it didn't all descend to a full out brawl. Except that one time Søren got fed up with it all and threw a pen at someone, after which he got to hear a very serious lecture from Héderváry about what sort of behaviour was expected of a captain. But that was just the once and the person had totally deserved it.

One would have thought it would have helped a bit there were quite many people of Auberonian descent living on Titania and vice versa, but somehow... it really didn't. Possibly, it made things worse.

At least the explosion had pretty much destroyed most of the arsenal gathered up on Titania. As Søren found out once he woke up, they'd managed to contain it pretty well, especially the radiation and the fire, but some of the shock wave and noise had gotten through, and that had almost done him and Commander Myhre in. Talking of whom, Søren had been very very relieved to see it hadn't. He'd really feared the worst there, in hindsight.

Returning to the issues of Titanians, they'd willingly given up both the disease and cure Ludwig had manufactured, although they'd wanted an assurance Starfleet would get rid of them. Apparently they would have preferred to do it themselves but hadn’t quite known how.

Once things were finally off to as good a start as they could ensure, they set out to leave. However, King Feliciano suggested throwing a party in their honour first, and no one quite knew how to say no to him, apparently.

Since the ship was already on Titania, that was where the party was arranged at.

At first, people didn't quite seem to know how to react to the concept of having fun, but in no time at all they seemed to go through some variation of the thought process: So, we've suffered all this time and it has really sucked... but hey, that's (sort of maybe I really hope at least) over! So, let's PARTY. And after that things got really crazy, but mostly in a good way.

King Feliciano himself was parked in the biggest square in the capital city of Titania, commandeering the biggest buffé table Søren had ever seen. He was still looking rather pale and haggard after his imprisonment, but also glowing with an almost maniacal sort of happiness. Whenever he stumbled the tall blond who never went far from his side would catch him and then the King would beam up at him in a sickeningly romantic sort of way.

It was actually the guy Søren and Myhre had freed. It had turned out he was... well, it had all been very complicated, but apparently the Ludwig who'd been the crazy tyrant was a clone, except no one had known he was actually the clone of another clone whose place he'd taken... or something like that. Väinämöinen who'd heard the whole story from Héderváry had tried to explain it to him while he was still in the infirmary, except Søren had still been feeling like death warmed over and all the complicated details had kinda gone over his head.

Suffice to say, this Ludwig was the non-evil and crazy edition, and that was enough information for Søren. He'd also decided to let his boyfriend rule the country so no one would get confused, but as they stood on the balcony of the palace and watched the teeming crowds below, Myhre noted he wondered how long that would last once things got back to normal.

"From what I've seen, this Ludwig seems like a very orderly person, whereas Feliciano..."

"Is not?" Søren supplied.

"Exactly."

They watched as Lieutenant Väinämöinen flitted around the drink table, eagerly sampling the local beverages, especially ones of alcoholic variety.

"Berwald's going to have to carry him to the ship, isn't he?" Søren remarked.

"Quite probably...hm."

"What?"

"I think Lieutenant Héderváry has entered some sort of martial arts tournament. See, over there at the left."

"What the hell are they using as weapons, it looks like a--"

"I think it's called a téganon. The handle is balanced by an iron head, and the... round blade, although it's seldom sharpened, is made of cast iron. In Auberon's prehistory, the wandering tribes on the northern steppes used them both in combat and for cooking."

They both winced as Lieutenant Héderváry's weapon met the head of her opponent, his protective helmet clanging like a bell. Søren unconsciously raised a hand to his own head, which still had a bandage around it. Mostly to hide the funny bald spot on his temple where they'd had to cut hair away, if he was honest, but still.

"Well, she's certainly earning some admirers," Myhre noted drily.

Søren just nodded. Usually, he would have been right down there with the revellers, maybe trying out some martial arts himself and then the drink table. Or the other way around. But this time, he just felt... not old, never that, but tired, perhaps. Or like he earned to take a break, and not the kind he wouldn't be able to remember afterwards. Huh, maybe he was getting older. What a horrible thought.

He glanced at his companion, who was leaning on the thick ornamental railing. The evening sun was giving his skin a ruddy glow and a light wind was moving his hair slightly, especially one peculiar wisp of hair. He turned questioningly, and Søren realized he'd been staring, and turned away quickly, his face warming.

He coughed, looking about for something to comment on, and found it in the sight of a laughing Héderváry, her arms around two men, both of them looking sort of familiar... right it was Gilbert and... that stuck up guy, Rodin maybe? If he recalled right those three were childhood friends or something and judging by the position of her hands Lieutenant Héderváry was feeling very friendly indeed.

"Well, Commander Myhre, it looks like--"

"Sindre."

"Huh?"

Myhre was giving him that rare lopsided smile of his, still leaning on the balustrade but turned to face Søren. Once he had his attention, he straightened up and took a step closer and then another, until he was standing rather closer than the usual polite distance between a captain and their first officer. And he was still smiling, if only in his eyes.

"We're not on duty, so you might as well call me by my first name, right?"

"Oh," Søren said dumbly, and then. "Sindre," testing the shape of the word. Somehow, it suited him.

"Søren," Sindre replied, with light dancing in his eyes. It was terribly distracting and for a moment Søren couldn't remember what he'd been about to ask.

"Um...Sindre?" Søren asked.

"Yes?"

"Why are you standing so close?"

Sindre gave him a serious look.

"Because," he said gravely. "I'm going to kiss you. If you don't mind."

Søren blinked and then again.

"Oh...oh, yes. I mean, please go ahead."

And then he did. And Søren completely forgot his train of thought about being old or tired or whatever, or even about the bald spot in his hair. He had far better things to do, after all.

*

That would have been a nice sort of ending, if it was a movie or something. In reality, they all had to return to the ship eventually, more or less weary, and get up the next morning to get the ship ready for leaving, at least those who could actually stay on their feet. Lieutenant Väinämöinen especially was looking rather worse for the wear, and glaring daggers at Héderváry who was bright and bushy-haired like the cat that got the cream and the canary both. Which she most likely had, and at the same time even, though for the sake of not having too inappropriate thoughts at the breakfast table Søren deigned to think too much about or. Or what the hell, he thought as he happened to glance at Myhre...Sindre, and he happened to be not-smiling back, not like many people were going to notice.

Lieutenant Jónsson with his fork full of... some horrible Andorian speciality that smelled like rotten fish, stopped with said fork halfway up to his mouth, and stared at them with his mouth open in horror for a brief moment. Then he allowed his fork to clatter back onto the plate.

"Ok, you know, I think this hasn't ever come up before but my grandmother was an Aenar. You know Aenar?"

Søren stared back at him and then nodded slowly, puzzled why he'd felt the need to suddenly share this information right at that moment. Well, that at least explained why his skin had such a pale hue for an Andorian...

"So, you know how they're telepathic. And it's not like I listen to people's thought, but the point is, some things are kinda hard ignore."

The usually relatively mild (for an Andorian) Lieutenant glared at Søren briefly.

"So, congratulations, Captain," Jónsson said sourly. "Hurt him, and you'll get a first hand experience of the fine tradition of Ushaan. And you," he turned to Sindre. "I'm disappointed in your taste, and hope you don't regret it."

Myhre looked touched, his usual serious expression softening a fraction.

"Thank you, Valdi," he replied.

"Damn pink-skins..." Lieutenant Jónsson mumbled, tucking in into his rotten-fish dish once again and refusing to meet Sindre's eyes.

Sindre turned to him, and seemed to be about to say something, but Søren never found out what, because at that moment Berwald stalked into the room, looking about as furious as any Vulcan Søren had ever seen.

He stopped at Søren's table, staring down at him with that I'll-crush-you-with-my-mind look, which was no empty threat coming from a Vulcan.

"Well...good morning, Lieutenant Commander," Søren said lightly, not one to allow himself to be threatened by anyone. From the corner of his eyes, he noted that almost everyone in the mess hall had stopped to look, more or less surreptitiously.

"I have... discovered very troubling information, about your task on this ship." Berwald said stiffly.

"Is that so?" Søren drawled. "Well, mostly I'm here as what we call a starfleet Captain, and--"

"I am aware of the duties of a Captain," Berwald snapped, "I am not objecting to that. However, you are also working for the Decommission Evaluation Division."

Judging by Berwald's tone, he might have as well been a member of the Orion Syndicate. And if everyone hadn't been following the discussion before, they definitely were doing so now. Thank you, Berwald, Søren thought sourly, for making sure everyone in the room heard.

"Correction, I used to work in the D.E.D before I was offered position as a Captain here," Søren replied coolly.

"So you say," Berwald said darkly. "However, command has asked you to evaluate the functionality of USS Bifrost, have they not?"

Where the hell had the Vulcan got this information anyway? Søren made sure not to look around. He knew already everyone was staring at the power struggle between a captain and their second officer... a second officer who'd been working on the ship decades longer, and a captain who'd just been revealed as someone potentially working for The Enemy, screw any and all malicious alien races.

Now here was a fight to the death, and Søren grinned, knowing it showed too many teeth and not caring.

"That, officer, is classified information. Unofficially, I might been requested an evaluation. Officially, that's none of your damn business."

Any wisp of emotion that had been on Lieutenant Commander Berwald's face was suddenly wiped away, and somehow, that was more alarming than anything else. Søren heard someone's chair clatter to the ground as they presumably stood up, but he didn't dare look away from those burning cold blue eyes. He felt like he staring down a wild animal, one false move and he'd be torn to pieces.

He realized with a jolt that Berwald could probably get a away with it, even. He, in their eyes, was the new Captain about to destroy a ship they loved, the place that was a home to some of them. How many of them would join him in a mutiny to save that? How many of them would not? If it had been him and USS Kalmar and he could have saved her...

"Lieutenant Colonel... Berwald, stand back."

Somehow, the steely calm in Myhre's voice broke through the gathering tension. Berwald looked surprised for a moment, the emotion a barest flicker on his rough hewn features. Søren would have never noticed it if he hadn't been staring so intently, still looking for a sign of attack.

Therefore, he didn't know what sort of expression on Myhre's face made him stand back, just a step, and remain there, face again perfectly inscrutable.

"You of all have too much to loose," Berwald said, and again, there was a brief something except this time it was almost like despair. Not to mention it was practically confirmation he'd been planning a mutiny, gods.

Søren finally dared to turn to look at Sindre, who was standing behind him, every scrap of his iron will there to seen. And it was something to see indeed.

"I have served starfleet all my life. All that would become meaningless if I did not continue to do so until the end. You, or no one can ask that of me," Sindre said, a statement of fact.

It was like something had punched the will to fight right out of Berwald. He was a Vulcan, so he didn't slump or even show it in his expression but it was there for the one who could see anyway. Søren who knew exactly how that felt could see it and despite everything he couldn't help but feel sympathy for the Vulcan.

Just as fast Berwald seemed to gather himself but it was a very different sort of person who turned back to Søren again. It was a person who had put all they had into a single attack, only to loose all they had before it even started.

"Captain, I--"

Just as suddenly as he'd known Berwald could kill him (or, more likely just toss him in the brig) and have the crew on his side earlier, Søren just knew the Vulcan was now going to surrender himself to be court martialed for attempted mutiny. Fuck that.

"Lieutenant Commander Berwald," Søren said firmly

Amazingly, the Vulcan managed to straighten his posture a bit more at that.

Søren grinned sharply at him, enjoying the apprehension he knew the Vulcan had to be feeling, even if he didn't show it. Just a little payback for almost making him... scared back there.

"We all make mistakes, huh? I'm sure this doesn't need to go any further," he said and winked.

*

"I appreciate what you did," Sindre told him later, at the observation deck.

This place had almost become a habitual place to escape to, Søren thought wistfully. If he actually stayed on as captain, it could really become so, even. Perhaps even a place for the two of them, him and Sindre.

"Well, it was kinda fun to see Berwald shake in his pants for a change. But I doubt court martialing the poor sod because he was unlucky enough to get a single emotion in his life would have been. Besides, Väinämöinen would have probably made his own coup before I could have gotten that far." Søren joked.

"Yes, Lieutenant Väinämöinen's ire is something to beware," Myhre agreed with a perfectly straight face.

Søren glanced at him, knowing there was a more serious issue beneath their jokes.

"I was... surprised, maybe, that you defended... uh, me?" Søren mumbled, feeling uncommonly hesitant to assume it had been for his sake, and not starfleet in general.

Sindre glanced at him with a wry expression and then shifted close enough to lay a hand on Søren's arm, just like he had once before when they stood in this same place.

"I know you're just trying to do what you see as the right thing. I have no right to stop that, even if my interests were to the contrary," he said.

His voice was kind, and yet Søren felt there was a distance between them that hadn't been there before, certainly not on that last day on Titania. But then, wasn't that how most relationship were in space, transient? Perhaps that was for the best. Non-transient relationship made one care too much, and caring too much clouded the judgment.

"And are they?" he asked, tiredly and knowing the answer already.

Sindre sounded just as tired when he next spoke.

"You've made your decision, haven't you? USS Bifrost is not... an overtly sought-after ship. If you'd asked, especially with a successful mission behind you, you'd probably be allowed to stay on as captain here," he said it like a man who knows his last offer will likely be turned down, and who makes it anyway.

With all that he had, Søren wanted to say yes, like he'd wanted to be captain to USS Kalmar. It wasn't safe to want something so much in space.

"I'm not so sought after myself," he said instead, going for a light tone, unable to meet Sindre's eyes. "I doubt they'll give me another one, with my... my track record," his voice almost broke at that, and he had to pause. "And USS Bifrost is... an amazing ship, one of the most beautiful I've seen."

He'd never seen Myhre blush, before now. How odd, Søren thought distractedly.

"But. You know it's... there are small problems, and they could escalate someday. One never knows with a ship this age." Or any age, to be truthful. New, untested models could be even more risky sometimes...but he was digressing, even if in the privacy of his head.

"Thing is, I just can't..."

Sindre's hand slipped away from his arm and he stepped back, blank disappointment in his eyes.

"You won't risk it," he said, and it wasn't accusing at all. Søren almost wished it had been. Sindre just sounded so tired, like he never had before.

"Søren, I knew all along. And I never...look, I didn't befriend you to affect your judgment," Sindre sounded intent suddenly, almost angry, but not quite. "No matter what you find out, don't ever think that," don't you dare his gaze said, dark in the low-lit room.

"Of course you didn't," Søren replied, not understanding why this was so important to him.

"Promise," Sindre insisted, still in that intent tone.

"I do?"

"I only wanted to get to know you, as you are, and for you to do the same in return," Sindre said, so seriously they sounded like the words of some ancient ceremony.

"That... that I have," Søren replied again, bemused.

Then, something seemed to go out of Sindre, and he was no longer a mysterious creature demanding cryptic vows from him, but just a man who was loosing their home.

"Then, I guess it's... fine," he said, and the last word was almost a sigh.

"Will you hate me for it?" Søren asked, even if it made him feel a bit pathetic.

Sindre shook his head.

"No. But... you won't see me again," he said, perfectly calmly.

Søren swallowed the knot in his throat and told himself he'd known this was coming, one way or another. Relationships in space were transient. All of them.

"They might recommission her," Søren tried to cheer him up a bit but it fell flat even in his own ears.

Sindre turned to look at him, and his mother had worn that exact same expression when the tribble he'd had when he was five died, and he'd asked her if they could cure it with a band aid.

"It wouldn't be the same," was all he said.

*

He met Berwald on the way to take the report to the brass, a report in which he was recommending USS Bifrost for decommission. At the time he thought it was a coincidence, but later... Søren wondered sometimes.

Be that as it may, meet him he did.

"Evening, Captain," Berwald said in his usual stiff fashion, his gaze skating over the folder Søren was holding and immediately away in distaste, as if he was carrying a dead animal or something equally unpleasant.

"I see you are on your way to the D.E.D offices," Berwald stated bluntly.

What could he say to that. Yes, I'm headed off to give the death sentence to your first love, have a nice day?

"Yeah." Søren said.

Berwald was staring at a point somewhere in the distance over his left shoulder, his eyes narrowed in thought. Søren could just hear his Vulcan brain grinding away, looking for a counter argument to change his mind. Or possibly ways to hide the body.

"Look, it's not... easy for me either, and I know how it feels to lose a ship you've been with a while too so..." damn it, you can't say 'I feel for you' to a Vulcan, that just pisses them off, Søren thought, biting his lip. "How is it even logical, going to such length to protect something that's not even sentient?" he asked, honestly curious. If Berwald could actually explain that to him...well.

He looked angry at first, in that stiff, freezing way he had and then... Søren could tell the moment he realized he actually wanted to know the answer in all seriousness. His eyebrows rose up slightly, he was that surprised.

"You... do not know," Once again, it wasn't a question. Berwald so seldom bothered with actual questions instead of statements, it was one of the things about him that infuriated Søren the most. However, this time as he saw the subtle sense of victory blooming on his face, Søren felt almost hopeful. Berwald thought he had something to convince him, and he was seldom actually wrong. That was the second most infuriating thing about him.

"No, if you think that, you clearly do not know all the relevant facts about USS Bifrost," Berwald stated. He frowned thoughtfully. "In fact, I realize now that Sindre Myhre has deliberately kept the information from you so as not to affect your judgement."

Søren laughed bitterly. So much for that.

"Look, I don't know what you think you know, but if Sindre knew anything that could save the ship he wouldn't hesitate to use it."

Berwald shook his head.

"No, he would not. The Commander has a certain character faults...chiefly being too altruistic."

He was what?

"I'm surprised you have not realized the facts, regardless," Berwald chided him.

Søren frowned, as he did not appreciate being talked to like a stupid schoolchild, but Berwald continued before he had time to gather up proper indignation.

"In your studies about the history and manufacture of USS Bifrost, did you find out what were the main fields of study Astrid Myhre excelled in?" he quizzed Søren.

"Uh... I don't know... astromechanics? I can't remember and how is it even--"

"Among other things, artificial intelligence and hologram technology." Berwald interrupted, while eyeballing him meaningfully.

When Søren just stared at him expectantly, Berwald shook his head, clearly having lost hope in his intelligence.

"In addition to designing a ship that could expand it's databanks independently and conduct some simple repairs, Astrid Myhre included a practical application of her studies in the aforementioned fields. In short, she designed a hologram... avatar of the ship's AI." Now he was really using his 'talking to a slow child' voice, but Søren was too busy listening to care.  
"As a precaution, given that the AI's personality was also given... freedom to change in the programming, it can be hurt and injured as humans can, albeit with the option to be regenerated later... and of course feel in other realistic ways." Berwald concluded, before finally looking Søren straight in the eyes.

"I am surprised you didn't notice how seriously he was injured in the explosion... no normal human could have survived that."

Søren stood there a long time, just taking it all in, cataloguing the information into the little messy boxes in his mind. It was surprising, but it did fit... explained a lot of things, even. Even Berwald knew for once when to shut up.

Finally, Søren grinned at him, pushing the folder into his arms.

"Look, can you just... destroy these, or whatever?"

He barely heard Berwald's "With pleasure, Captain," as he sprinted away. Not really even anywhere in particular, it was just a running sort of moment. Running and jumping and hooting from joy, but that wasn't dignified behaviour of a starship captain.

He was just going to find Sindre and they'd have a long talk about what was or was not... what had Berwald said, right 'relevant information' and maybe about some other things too. Like how Søren was through being a coward just because he'd been burned once but that Sindre had also better not even mention lifepods if it ever came to that. Søren did stop at that, just so he could laugh, at the wonderful feeling of freedom expanding in his chest. He exhaled, feeling the last particle of old fear trickle out with it.

Fear was a surprisingly heavy thing, he thought giddily. Søren felt like he could have flown at that moment. He'd have to ask Sindre how that felt, someday.

"If he'll have me," he said softly, uncaring that a passing cadet gave him a strange look. Well, nothing in life was certain but Søren had a good feeling about his prospects. Right now, he felt like he could accomplish anything, and that, as far as he was concerned, was a good start.

The passing cadet dropped his books when Søren sped by him, chuckling loudly and waving his arms. He stared after him a moment and then shook his head disgustedly. Officers, they were all, like, off in the head. He’d have to mention that to Toris in the seminar…

The End

Omake:

“You were all in on this, weren’t you?”

“No they weren’t!” The boy protested immediately, his formidable eyebrows scrunched up over bright blue eyes.  
“I didn’t ask you,” Søren snapped at him, before turning back to his command team. Who’d apparently thought it fitting to hide the presence of a damned stowaway on the ship.

“He helps out,” Berwald, of all people, offered. Søren tried to glare him down, but it was like trying to fight fire with fire… or something like that.

“That does not in any way make it ok to have some…” he flailed for an appropriate word “pirate whelp on board a starship vessel. Sindre, even you?” he said forlornly, not even noticing he’d forgot to use his correct title like they’d agreed.

Sindre coughed.

“Well, before I had the impression the ship was going to be decommissioned, so I saw no great harm in letting young Peter travel with us… and then we left for the new mission quite suddenly, so there was no time to make any other arrangements,” he explained, making it all sound very reasonable. It was one of his special skills.

Søren gave the present crew one more narrow eyed look. He noted that Berwald was sort of… hovering. So apparently he was fond of the kid then. For that matter, medical assistant Galante was there as well, supposedly to assure he’d checked Peter had no commutable diseases. Right. Another hoverer.

“According to article 567 of the Starfleet protocol--” Berwald began.

“What’s that?” Søren asked Sindre, who pretended to think about it.

“That alien lifeforms can be adopted by the crew as long as they cause no danger to the working of the ship, I believe.”

“Peter won’t cause any problems!” the boy said cheerfully.

Søren just gave him a long look.

“Berwald, he’s a humanoid, you can’t claim him as a pet,” he said finally. But by the stubborn look on the Vulcan’s face, Søren just knew he’d find a way, somehow.


End file.
